chasing contentment

two days in paris

The sun rises slowly in Paris. I had gone there to chase something. I wasn’t quite sure what, but I was glad not to be running from anything. Maybe I was chasing beautiful things—Paris is full of them. Maybe I was chasing discomfort. I tend to do that frequently. Once life gets to a repetitive place, tired, uninspiring, monotonous, I can’t help but seek experiences that drag me from that place so quickly, I’m left dizzied.

I landed in Paris at six in the morning, and by the time I could escape Charles de Gaulle, it was eight and still dark. I felt hungover with exhaustion from tossing and turning metaphorically on my flight all night. I had little time to waste; I was in the city for only two days. Short, but I refused to waste the opportunity to chase beautiful things.

I ran, almost immediately, to one of my favorite neighborhoods for a coffee. Saint-Germain-des-Prés is a quiet neighborhood, scattered with galleries of various sorts that are always empty, with one person sitting inside managing them. On my way to the much-needed coffee, I watched those people as I passed by, wondering what their days must look like. I wrote in my journal for a while in the cafe before walking over to the Luxembourg Gardens. I had no real plans, I sat and watched all the people casually strolling on their way somewhere, but without the same urgency you see in the United States. It was January, and everyone still sat in the park. I’ll admit it wasn’t unbearably cold, comfortable enough to open a book and read for a while, which is what I did.

I stumbled upon a small shop with books, floor-to-ceiling, noticeable from the window. I thought of my bookshelf at home and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to look around. The old woman who ran the shop looked at me a bit skeptically at first, expecting me to take one look, as that was all it took to see the entire space, and leave. I suspected there was no organization to the way the books were placed, but the moment I asked her for specific topics, she ran off, almost in different directions, to pull books for me. I giggled to myself at her urgency and the way that even though the shop seemed to make no sense to me, she knew exactly where everything was. I left with two books on my favorite Paris neighborhoods, and the skeptical eyes melted away.

In the evening, it was raining until I had to leave for dinner. My loafers slid around on the wet, smooth sidewalks, but I was determined to walk. The crisp air woke me up, and the yellow hue of the street lights calmed me. I had fallen in love that night while walking along the Seine, not with a person, but with a feeling. Lights from all over the city reflected on the ripples of the water, and windows from homes invited you in with their glow. I felt a certain contentment, one that I hadn’t felt in a long while. The bells of Notre Dame rang out, and I realized then what I was chasing—that contentment, that feeling of alignment and utter belonging.

At dinner, I sat alone at the bar. I ate quickly and savored two glasses of wine. I walked home tipsy and took that feeling of alignment to bed with me.

The next morning, I woke up without enough time to eat before an hour-long walk to Musée de l’Orangerie. I packed my umbrella in my bag, seeing the rain outside the window. Light-headed with hunger, the Eiffel Tower stood tall in the hazy distance. My first stop was Monet’s Water Lilies on the first floor. A group of little children sat criss-crossed on the floor, listening to their teacher talk about the painting. I smiled to myself at their little faces, listening intently. I was distracted by my hunger, and most likely dehydration, but I continued. Downstairs, I passed works of Picasso, Matisse, and Maurice Utrillo, who I realized was the topic of one of the books I bought from the lady in Saint-Germain.

I attempted to cafe-hop in the Marais, but was stopped by wait times and crowds. Eventually, I found myself on the metro headed to Montmartre. My first stop was a vintage photo booth that a friend and I had visited the last time we were in Paris. It was time to get an updated photo. I stood next to a mother and daughter in line. The mother watched all of the girls in beautiful outfits and perfecting their makeup while waiting in line. “I don’t really think we’re dressed for the occasion, but it will be fun,” she whispered to her daughter. I turned back to them, “There’s no dress code, don’t worry.” They giggled with me. I spent a while hiking up and down the hills of Montmartre, out of breath, but comforted by the quiet streets and the old homes.

I looked at the clock and was terrified by how little time I had left in the city. In a panic, I ended up back in Saint-Germain, instead of exploring a new place. I couldn’t leave without spending more time there. I walked the empty streets towards the outskirts of the arrondissement, stopping to look in each window of every store and gallery. Each step felt like I was wishing the place goodbye.

I had my final dinner at a brasserie in the 11th arrondissement. I was mourning an evening walk along the Seine. It was a Friday night, and people filled the streets. I hadn’t expected the number of people out on runs at that hour, knowing I would typically be at home, or if I were them, living in Paris, would probably be preparing to do something that entailed alcohol and lack of sleep. The moon lit up the sky, highlighting the clouds floating along my walk with me. I was still being blessed by contentment.

I arrived early for my reservation, and the restaurant was empty. They sat me at a small table tucked in the back. I ordered myself a glass of wine. When the clock struck seven, my surroundings became filled with people. Next to me sat another mother and daughter. I listened to them talk about the winter storm I was going to make it home just in time for, which they were hoping would extend their trip, and realized we must be from a similar area. At some point, my eavesdropping got the best of me, and I chimed in on some conversation they were having. I spent the rest of my dinner chatting with them about where they were from and what they were doing in Paris.

On my last walk home, I was yet again tipsy, but this time thinking about my own mother. What a treat it would’ve been to be in Paris with her. Both times I spoke to the daughters, I almost told them how lucky they were, but instead I kept the thought to myself. I pushed it away, thinking, “Maybe they already know that, Brooke.” My mother was a woman who, I believe, wished to see the world. And for one reason or another, she never got the chance. During these times, when I take opportunities to get uncomfortable, traveling to foreign places, alone, I often think about how proud she would be of me.

I left Paris at four in the morning the next day. The trip ended just as quickly as it began. I promised myself to hold onto that feeling of alignment for as long as I could, and when it would eventually escape me, as all feelings do, I told myself to allow the memory of that feeling to guide me in everything I do.