TRAVELOGUE | Paris in 4 days

They say Paris is always a good idea, although I think “they” have probably never coordinated a four-day trip with their parents. Still, I suppose “they” were right because despite everything, Paris turned out to be a very good idea indeed.

So, on a very early May 1^st we arrived in the city of light, love and magnificent balconies armed with walking shoes and optimism for a trip which was part a gift for my parents and part personal nostalgia, as I hadn’t been back to Paris in nearly twenty years. Strangely enough, I saw a city that hadn’t changed much, the people still had that vaguely bored, elegant & effortlessly stylish look, like they’d just stepped out of a 1960s cigarette ad and were irritated to find themselves in 2025.

But I digress.

We had four days. And three of them were bathed in sun so golden (read: hot) it could’ve been piped directly from a Monet canvas. I photographed the Sacré-Cœur basking in that glow, its stairs spilling over with locals and tourists lounging on the grass, sipping wine from plastic cups with the casual poise only Parisians can muster, in a classic postcard-scene with someone charmingly singing “La Vie en Rose”.

There were beautiful moments of peace, like floating on the Seine during a bateaux-mouches cruise: the city unfolded around us like in all its full & perfect glory. I caught glimpses of lovers on bridges, apartments that looked like they belonged in a Wes Anderson moodboard and monuments so dramatic they made me forgive France for inventing paperwork. The light was kind, the wind was crisp, everything beautiful all around.

The metro, however, was not kind with its endless labyrinth of stairs: stairs to the station, stairs to the connection, stairs to more stairs. My mother, who was struggling with walking, bravely soldiered on, but honestly, the whole experience felt like the world’s most passive-aggressive fitness challenge. And mostly I got increasingly creative at swearing under my breath while trying to locate elevators that didn’t exist.

Of course, no trip is complete without a little drama, and Paris delivered right on cue: an afternoon hailstorm so sudden and theatrical it felt like the sky had been holding a grudge. Picture this: hail the size of frozen grapes pelting down while we (luckily) sat snugly in the back of an Uber, windows fogging up as we watched unfortunate pedestrians sprinting for cover, umbrellas exploding like origami under pressure. The driver said nothing, just drove on with serene indifference. It was possibly the most French thing that happened all trip.

Naturally, the Eiffel Tower made an appearance in our itinerary. So did every other human being in Paris that day, judging by the crowds. There’s something absurdly moving about seeing Parisians just hanging out beneath that colossal iron cliché—sunbathing, breakdancing, reading Camus (just because they’re French) like it’s a beach novel. I snapped a few shots from a distance, and then again from underneath, where the geometry becomes something else entirely—abstract, almost aggressive, like a giant industrial doily.

Throughout it all, my parents were curious, albeit a little bit scared of the overwhelming overall experience, and occasionally baffled by the local habits. Chief among their discoveries: there is no pasta on the menu (scandalous), bread is somehow not automatically provided (outrageous), and a bar is not a bar in the Italian sense—you cannot, for instance, pop in for a quick espresso and drink it standing at the counter while discussing the weather. No. In Paris, you sit, you order, and you wait to be mildly judged by your waiter. It’s an experience.

At night, we’d rest. By which I mean: we’d lie in our hotel beds rehashing every step of the day and revisiting the eternal question of whether we’d ever truly understand French culture, or whether it was simply meant to be observed, like performance art that comes with a wine list.

Well, Paris didn’t disappoint, as it never really does. It just challenges you, sometimes with beauty, sometimes with hail, sometimes with a metro system designed by someone who clearly hated knees. In the end, it was less “Emily in Paris” and more “Logistics in Paris,” with someone (hello dad!) asking where the spaghetti are… Paris, c’est la vie, but we made it work.