Paris travel inspiration Ernest Hemingway Paris memoir Seine River sunrise experience Seine River dawn photography
Introduction: The Starting Point of a Dream
“Paris is a moveable feast,” Ernest Hemingway wrote in his memoir, a line that had lingered in my mind for years like a half-remembered melody. I’d traced it in the margins of my copy of A Moveable Feast, underlined it in airport bookstores, and even quoted it to friends when daydreaming about distant travels. But it wasn’t until I stood on the banks of the Seine at dawn, watching the first golden light spill over the rooftops and gild the tip of the Eiffel Tower, that those words stopped being just text—they became a feeling. The air smelled of freshly baked croissants drifting from a nearby boulangerie, mixed with the faint, earthy scent of the river, and somewhere a street sweeper’s broom whispered against the cobblestones. In that moment, France stopped being a postcard or a movie scene; it became real.
Months before that dawn, the journey had begun in a cluttered apartment in London, where I’d spread maps across my dining table and annotated guidebooks until my fingers were smudged with ink. Applying for the Schengen visa had felt like a rite of passage: gathering bank statements, booking a refundable hotel in the Marais, writing a cover letter that tried (and probably failed) to sound both earnest and not too desperate. I’d spent weekends watching French films—Amélie for the whimsy of Montmartre, Before Sunset for the walk-and-talk magic of Parisian streets, A Good Year for the sun-dappled vineyards of Provence—until I could almost mimic the lilt of a Parisian accent when ordering coffee. I’d even started reading Proust, though I’ll admit I got stuck on the madeleines (not the taste, but the endless paragraphs). By the time I packed my suitcase—folded sweaters for October’s crisp air, a sturdy pair of walking shoes, a notebook for jotting down impressions—I wasn’t just excited. I was ready to step into the dream I’d nurtured for so long.
My trip spanned three weeks in late October: a time when Paris trades summer’s crowds for golden autumn light, when the Loire Valley’s vineyards turn burnt orange, and when Provence still holds the last warmth of summer (even if the lavender has faded). I traveled alone—not by accident, but by choice. Solo travel, I’d found, lets you sink deeper into a place: you linger at a café until the barista recognizes your order, you get lost in backstreets without worrying about holding someone up, you strike up conversations with strangers because there’s no one else to talk to. My goal wasn’t to check off every landmark (though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see the Eiffel Tower). It was to chase that “moveable feast” Hemingway wrote about—the small, unplanned moments that make a trip unforgettable: a shared laugh with a local, a perfect croissant eaten on a park bench, a sunset that turns the sky pink over the Seine.
Chapter 1: First Impressions of Paris – A Symphony of Romance and History
The first thing I noticed about Charles de Gaulle Airport was the language. French surrounded me like a soft blanket: announcements over the loudspeaker, travelers chatting while waiting for luggage, a mother singing a lullaby to her toddler. I’d studied French in school, but hearing it spoken fluently—fast, melodic, with that distinctive Parisian intonation—made my heart race. I fumbled with my phone, trying to pull up the translation app I’d downloaded, but then a customs officer smiled and said, “Bonjour, welcome to France,” in accented English, and the nervousness melted away.
Retrieving my luggage felt like a victory, but navigating to the RER B train to the city center was another challenge. The signs were in both French and English, but I still managed to walk in circles twice before a kind older man noticed my confusion. “Vous allez à Paris?” he asked, and I nodded, relieved. He pointed me to the correct platform, and even explained how to buy a ticket from the machine (pro tip: always have cash—some machines don’t take foreign cards). The train was crowded, but I found a seat next to a student who was reading a poetry collection. We didn’t talk, but I watched her turn the pages, and listened to the hum of conversations around me: a couple planning their day, a businessman on a call, a group of tourists arguing over a map. As the train pulled out of the airport, the landscape changed from industrial parks to suburban houses with neat gardens, and then—finally—into the outskirts of Paris. I pressed my face to the window, trying to take it all in: the red-tiled roofs, the church steeples, the glimpses of the Seine.
My first real taste of Parisian life came on the Métro. I’d read about its old, slightly musty smell—mix of iron, dust, and something indefinably “Parisian”—but nothing prepared me for it. The stations are like underground museums: some, like Arts et Métiers, are decorated with brass and glass, like a 19th-century submarine; others, like Concorde, have marble walls and chandeliers. As I waited for the Line 1 train to the Marais, a street musician started playing the accordion. He played “La Vie en Rose,” and for a moment, everyone stopped: a teenager put down her phone, an elderly woman tapped her foot, a tourist pulled out a camera. When he finished, the crowd applauded, and he tipped his hat with a smile. That’s the thing about Paris, I thought: even in the chaos of a busy Métro station, there’s beauty.
Walking through the streets of the Marais—my neighborhood for the first week—was like stepping into a postcard, but better. The buildings are made of light-colored stone, with wrought-iron balconies overflowing with potted geraniums. Every few steps, there’s a boulangerie with a display case full of croissants and baguettes, or a bookstore with shelves spilling out onto the sidewalk, or a flower shop where the florist arranges bouquets with meticulous care. I wandered aimlessly, my shoes clicking on the cobblestones, stopping to admire a street artist painting a portrait of the Place des Vosges, or a group of children chasing each other in a small park. The air was crisp, with a hint of wood smoke from someone’s fireplace, and the sun shone through the trees, dappling the ground with light.
No visit to Paris is complete without the Eiffel Tower, and I’d planned to see it both in the afternoon and at night. I took the Métro to Champ de Mars, and when I rounded the corner, there it was: tall, elegant, its iron beams stretching up to the sky. I’d seen photos a thousand times, but nothing compares to seeing it in person. I walked across the grassy park, where locals were spread out on blankets, eating picnics of baguette, cheese, and wine. A group of friends laughed as they passed a bottle of Bordeaux, and a father played frisbee with his young son. I found a spot under a tree and sat down, pulling out a book, but I couldn’t read—I was too busy watching the tower. In the afternoon sun, its metal turned a warm, honey color, and every so often, it glinted like it was winking.
As the sun set, I walked to the Seine to watch the tower light up. The sky turned pink and orange, and then dark, and at 8 PM exactly, the tower exploded into light. Thousands of tiny sparkles danced across its beams, like someone had sprinkled stardust on it. The crowd gasped, and people pulled out their phones to record the moment, but I just stood there, staring. It was magical—not in a cheesy, touristy way, but in a way that makes your chest feel tight with joy. Later, I took a dinner cruise on the Seine, and from the boat, the tower looked even more beautiful. The lights of Paris reflected in the water: the golden dome of the Invalides, the spire of Notre-Dame (still under restoration, but still majestic), the twinkling windows of the buildings along the river. The guide pointed out landmarks, but I was too busy drinking in the view to listen. By the time the cruise ended, I was cold, but my heart was full.
My first French meal was at a tiny bistro near my apartment, called Le Petit Prince (yes, it was touristy, but the reviews were good). I sat at a table outside, wrapped in my jacket, and ordered a glass of red wine, a baguette with butter, and escargots de Bourgogne. The baguette was crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, and the butter was rich and creamy—nothing like the margarine I ate at home. The escargots were served in their shells, with garlic butter, and I was nervous to try them at first, but they were delicious: tender, with a strong garlic flavor that lingered on my tongue. The waiter, a young man with a beard, asked me how I liked them, and we ended up chatting for ten minutes about my trip. He recommended a few places to visit in the Marais, and told me that the best croissants in the neighborhood were at a boulangerie called Du Pain et des Idées. I left the bistro feeling warm and happy, already falling in love with Paris.
Chapter 2: Artistic Pilgrimages and Unexpected Street Discoveries
The Louvre is overwhelming. I’d read that it’s the largest art museum in the world, but numbers don’t prepare you for the size: endless hallways, grand staircases, rooms filled with thousands of paintings and sculptures. I arrived at 9 AM, when it opened, to avoid the crowds, but even then, there were already people lining up to see the Mona Lisa. I’d planned to start with the Italian Renaissance section, but I got lost almost immediately (the Louvre’s layout is like a maze), and ended up in a room filled with medieval tapestries. They were beautiful—vibrant colors, intricate patterns—and I stood there for twenty minutes, staring at them, before realizing I was supposed to be looking for da Vinci.
When I finally found the Mona Lisa, it was smaller than I expected, but no less captivating. She’s hung behind a glass case, and there’s always a crowd of people taking photos, but if you wait long enough, you can get a good look. Her smile is mysterious, just like everyone says, and her eyes seem to follow you around the room. I stood there for a while, trying to figure out what makes her so famous, and then I noticed the details: the way the light hits her face, the folds of her dress, the landscape in the background. It’s not just a painting—it’s a masterpiece. Afterward, I walked to the Venus de Milo, a marble statue of the goddess Aphrodite. She’s missing her arms, but that doesn’t make her any less beautiful. Her curves are perfect, and the marble looks soft, like it could melt in your hands. I sat on a bench in front of her, watching other visitors take photos, and felt a sense of awe. These works of art are hundreds of years old, but they still have the power to move people.
The best part of the Louvre, though, wasn’t the famous pieces—it was the hidden gems. I got lost again (this time on purpose) and wandered into a small room filled with 17th-century Dutch paintings. There was a painting by Johannes Vermeer called The Lacemaker, and it took my breath away. It’s a small painting, just a woman sitting by a window, making lace, but the details are incredible: the light streaming through the window, the texture of her dress, the concentration on her face. I stood there alone, staring at it, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the museum had disappeared. That’s the magic of the Louvre—you can spend hours looking at famous works, but then you turn a corner and find something that speaks to you personally.
The next day, I visited the Musée d’Orsay, which is housed in a former railway station. The building itself is a work of art: a grand hall with a glass roof, chandeliers, and a clock that overlooks the Seine. I went in the morning, when the sun was streaming through the glass roof, and the light was perfect. The Orsay is famous for its Impressionist paintings, and I spent most of my time in that section. I saw Monet’s Water Lilies—soft, dreamy, with colors that blend together like a watercolor—and Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhône—vibrant blues and yellows, full of energy. But my favorite was Renoir’s Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette. It’s a painting of people dancing in a park, and it’s full of life: the women in their colorful dresses, the men in their suits, the sunlight filtering through the trees. I could almost hear the music and the laughter. Afterward, I sat on a bench near the clock and watched the Seine flow by. The Orsay is smaller than the Louvre, but it’s more intimate—you don’t feel like you’re fighting through crowds to see the art.
Montmartre is like a village in the middle of Paris. It’s perched on a hill, and to get to the top, you have to climb a lot of stairs (or take the funicular, but where’s the fun in that?). I started at the bottom, walking up Rue des Abbesses, which is lined with vintage shops, cafés, and art galleries. I stopped at a small café called Café des Deux Moulins—made famous by Amélie—and ordered a café crème. The café was cozy, with red checkered tablecloths and photos of the movie on the walls. I sat by the window, watching people walk by, and felt like I was in a movie myself.
When I finally reached the top, I walked to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. It’s a white domed church, and it looks like it belongs in Rome, not Paris. The steps leading up to it are always crowded with tourists, but if you climb to the top, you get a panoramic view of Paris. I stood there for a long time, looking out at the city: the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the red-tiled roofs, the Seine winding through the streets. It was a clear day, and I could see for miles. Afterward, I wandered to Place du Tertre, the small square where street artists set up their easels. There were dozens of them, painting portraits of tourists or landscapes of Montmartre. A painter asked me if I wanted a portrait, and I said yes—why not? He set up his easel, and for twenty minutes, I sat there, smiling, while he painted. The result was a bit cartoonish, but I loved it—it’s a souvenir that reminds me of that sunny afternoon in Montmartre.
I also visited Le Consulat, a famous restaurant in Montmartre with a terrace that overlooks the city, and then walked to Le Bateau-Lavoir, the former artists’ residence where Picasso and Matisse once lived. But my favorite part of Montmartre was a small bar called Le Lapin Agile. It’s a tiny, dimly lit bar with wooden tables and walls covered in paintings. It’s been around since the 19th century, and artists like Picasso and Van Gogh used to drink here. I ordered a glass of wine and sat at a table in the corner, listening to a local musician play the guitar. The atmosphere was cozy and welcoming, and I felt like I was part of Montmartre’s history. Before I left, I bought a postcard and wrote a note to my friend: “Sitting in a bar where Picasso once drank. Life is weird and wonderful.”
The best discovery of my trip was unplanned. I was walking back to my apartment from the Marais one afternoon, when I saw a small park tucked between two buildings. It was called Square des Vosges, and it’s the oldest public square in Paris. The square is surrounded by red-brick buildings with white stone details, and in the center, there’s a fountain and a garden filled with trees. I walked in, and it was like stepping into a quiet oasis. There were a few people sitting on benches, reading or talking, but it was mostly quiet. I found a bench under a tree and sat down, pulling out my notebook. I wrote for an hour, watching the leaves fall and listening to the birds sing. It was a small moment, but it’s one of my favorite memories of Paris. Sometimes, the best parts of a trip are the ones you don’t plan for.
Chapter 3: The Aroma of France – A Culinary Journey
In Paris, breakfast is a ritual, not a rushed meal. Every morning, I’d walk to Du Pain et des Idées—the boulangerie the waiter at Le Petit Prince recommended—and order a croissant and a café au lait. The croissants there are famous, and for good reason: they’re buttery, flaky, and so light that they melt in your mouth. I’d stand outside the boulangerie, eating my croissant, and watch the Parisians go about their day. They’d stop for a coffee at the café next door, standing at the counter (no one sits down for a quick coffee in Paris), and then hurry off to work. I loved that—how even in a busy city, people take time to enjoy the small things.
One morning, I decided to try a typical Parisian breakfast: a café crème and a pain au chocolat. I went to a small café near my apartment, called Café de Flore (not the famous one in Saint-Germain, but a smaller version), and sat at a table outside. The waiter brought me my coffee—rich and creamy—and my pain au chocolat, which was warm and oozing with chocolate. I watched a group of elderly men playing chess at a nearby table, and a mother pushing her baby in a stroller. It was a perfect morning—slow, peaceful, and full of simple pleasures.
No culinary journey in Paris is complete without a visit to a market. I went to Marché Bastille, which is held every Thursday and Sunday, and it was a feast for the senses. The market is set up along the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, and there are hundreds of stalls selling everything from fresh fruit and vegetables to cheese, ham, olive oil, and flowers. The colors were vibrant: red tomatoes, yellow peppers, purple eggplants, green lettuce. The smells were even better: the tangy smell of cheese, the salty smell of ham, the sweet smell of fresh strawberries. I walked from stall to stall, sampling olives and cheese, and talking to the vendors. A cheese vendor gave me a sample of brie de Meaux, which is creamy and mild, and told me that it’s best eaten with a baguette and a glass of red wine. A fruit vendor gave me a strawberry, which was so sweet that it tasted like candy. I bought a bag of cherries, a wheel of brie, and a loaf of baguette, and then sat on a bench near the market to eat my impromptu lunch. It was one of the best meals I had in Paris.
Dessert in France is a serious business, and I made it my mission to try as many as possible. My first stop was Ladurée, the famous macaron shop on the Champs-Élysées. The shop is beautiful—pink and gold, with display cases full of colorful macarons. I bought a box of six: vanilla, raspberry, salted caramel, chocolate, pistachio, and lemon. I ate one right away—salted caramel—and it was perfect: the shell was crisp, the filling was creamy, and the combination of sweet and salty was delicious. Later, I tried Pierre Hermé, another famous macaron shop, and their salted butter caramel macaron was even better. I also discovered a small boulangerie near the Orsay Museum called Stohrer, which is the oldest pâtisserie in Paris (founded in 1730). I ordered a tarte tatin—caramelized apples on top of a buttery crust—and it was divine. The apples were sweet and tender, and the crust was flaky and buttery. I ate it slowly, savoring every bite.
One of my favorite dessert discoveries was a small bakery in the Marais called Chambelland. They specialize in gluten-free pastries, but you’d never know it—their croissants are just as flaky as regular ones, and their éclairs are filled with a rich, creamy chocolate ganache. I ordered a chocolate éclair, and it was so good that I went back the next day for another. The éclair was long and thin, with a crisp pastry shell and a smooth, chocolatey filling. It was not too sweet, which is perfect for someone who doesn’t like overly sugary desserts.
A formal French dinner is an experience, not just a meal, and I wanted to try one before I left Paris. I made a reservation at a restaurant called L’Arpège, which is a three-Michelin-starred restaurant in the 7th arrondissement. The restaurant is in a beautiful townhouse, and the dining room is elegant but not stuffy. The menu is focused on vegetables—yes, vegetables—and it’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had. I started with an appetizer of roasted carrots with a honey glaze and goat cheese, which was sweet and savory. Then, I had a main course of stuffed zucchini flowers with a tomato sauce, which was light and flavorful. For dessert, I had a lemon tart with a meringue topping, which was tangy and sweet. The sommelier recommended a glass of white wine to go with my meal, and it paired perfectly. The service was impeccable—attentive but not intrusive—and the whole meal lasted three hours. It was expensive, but it was worth every penny.
Chapter 4: Castles, Valleys, and Southern French Sunlight (A Trip to the Provinces)
After a week in Paris, I took a train to the Loire Valley, which is known as the “Garden of France” and is home to dozens of beautiful castles. The train ride was two hours, and the scenery was stunning: rolling hills, vineyards, and small villages with stone houses. I stayed in Amboise, a small town on the banks of the Loire River, which is home to the Château d’Amboise—where Leonardo da Vinci is buried.
My first stop in the Loire Valley was the Château de Chambord, which is the largest castle in the valley. It’s a masterpiece of French Renaissance architecture, with a grand facade, towers, and a double helix staircase (designed by da Vinci, according to legend). I walked through the castle’s rooms, which are furnished with 16th-century furniture, and then explored the gardens. The gardens are huge—13,000 hectares—and there are trails for walking and cycling. I rented a bike and rode around the gardens, passing by lakes, fountains, and forests. It was a beautiful day, and the sun shone through the trees, making the leaves look golden. I stopped at a small café in the gardens and ordered a glass of wine, watching the castle in the distance. Chambord is impressive, but it’s also a bit overwhelming—you can tell it was built to show off wealth and power.
My favorite castle in the Loire Valley was the Château de Chenonceau, which is often called the “Ladies’ Castle” because it was owned and decorated by several powerful women, including Catherine de’ Medici. Chenonceau is built over the Cher River, and it’s beautiful in a more intimate way than Chambord. The castle has a long gallery that spans the river, with large windows that overlook the water. I walked through the gallery, admiring the tapestries and paintings, and then went outside to explore the gardens. The gardens are divided into several sections, including a formal garden with geometric patterns and a kitchen garden with vegetables and herbs. I sat on a bench by the river, watching the water flow by, and felt at peace. Chenonceau is not just a castle—it’s a home, and you can feel the history and the love that went into making it.
After two days in the Loire Valley, I took a TGV (high-speed train) to Provence. The train ride was three hours, and the scenery changed dramatically: from the green hills of the Loire Valley to the dry, rocky hills of Provence. I stayed in Avignon, which is home to the Palais des Papes (Palace of the Popes), a huge Gothic palace that was once the seat of the Catholic Church.
Avignon is a beautiful town, with narrow streets, stone houses, and a lively central square called Place de l’Horloge. I spent my first day exploring the Palais des Papes, which is one of the largest Gothic palaces in the world. The palace has grand halls, chapels, and bedrooms, and the views from the towers are stunning. I walked through the Great Hall, which was used for ceremonies, and the Consistory Hall, where the popes held meetings. The palace is empty now—no furniture, no tapestries—but it’s still impressive. You can almost imagine the popes walking through the halls, surrounded by their advisors.
The next day, I took a day trip to the Luberon Valley, which is famous for its beautiful villages and lavender fields (though in late October, the lavender had already been harvested, but there were still a few patches of purple left). My first stop was Gordes, a village built on a hilltop, with stone houses and narrow streets. I walked up to the castle at the top of the village, which offers panoramic views of the valley. The village is quiet and peaceful, with small shops selling lavender products and local crafts. I stopped at a café and ordered a lavender latte, which was sweet and fragrant.
My next stop was Roussillon, a village known for its red cliffs and orange-colored houses. The cliffs are made of ochre, a natural pigment that was used in paintings for centuries. I walked through the village, admiring the colorful houses, and then went for a hike in the ochre quarries. The trails wind through the cliffs, and the colors are stunning: red, orange, yellow, and brown. It’s like walking on another planet. I met a local woman on the hike, and she told me that the quarries were once used to mine ochre, but now they’re a tourist attraction. She also recommended a small restaurant in the village where I could try bouillabaisse, a traditional Provençal fish stew. I went there for lunch, and the bouillabaisse was delicious: rich, flavorful, with chunks of fish and vegetables.
After a few days in Avignon, I took a train to Nice, on the French Riviera. The French Riviera is known for its sunny weather, beautiful beaches, and glamorous resorts, and Nice didn’t disappoint. I stayed in a hotel near the Promenade des Anglais, a famous waterfront boulevard that runs along the Mediterranean Sea. The Promenade is lined with palm trees, cafes, and shops, and it’s a popular spot for walking, cycling, and rollerblading. I spent my first afternoon walking along the Promenade, watching the waves crash against the shore and the people sunbathe on the pebble beach (yes, the beaches in Nice are made of pebbles, not sand). I stopped at a café and ordered a glass of rosé wine, which is very popular in the south of France. It was crisp and refreshing, perfect for a sunny afternoon.
Nice’s old town, Vieux Nice, is a maze of narrow streets, colorful houses, and small squares. I spent a day exploring the old town, visiting the Cours Saleya market, which is held every day except Monday. The market is lined with stalls selling fresh fruit, vegetables, flowers, and local crafts. I bought a bunch of fresh strawberries and a jar of olive tapenade, and then sat in a small square to eat. I also tried socca, a traditional Niçoise dish made of chickpea flour, olive oil, and salt. It’s cooked on a griddle and served hot, and it’s crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. It’s a simple dish, but it’s delicious.
One day, I took a day trip to Cannes, which is famous for its film festival. Cannes is more glamorous than Nice, with luxury hotels, designer shops, and a harbor filled with yachts. I walked along the Croisette, the famous waterfront boulevard, and visited the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, where the film festival is held. I also walked through the old town, Le Suquet, which is a hilltop village with narrow streets and beautiful views of the harbor. I stopped at a small restaurant in the old town and ordered a Salade Niçoise, which is a traditional salad made with tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers, olives, hard-boiled eggs, and tuna. It was fresh and flavorful, and it paired perfectly with a glass of rosé.
My last stop on the French Riviera was Antibes, a small town with a beautiful old town and a harbor filled with yachts. Antibes is less glamorous than Cannes, but it’s more charming. I walked through the old town, which is surrounded by medieval walls, and visited the Picasso Museum, which is housed in a former castle. The museum has a large collection of Picasso’s works, including paintings, sculptures, and drawings. I also walked along the harbor, watching the yachts come and go, and stopped at a small café to eat a pastry. Antibes is a perfect place to relax, and I spent my last afternoon there, sitting by the harbor, watching the sunset.
Chapter 5: Farewell and Reflections
After three weeks in France, it was time to go home. I took a train back to Paris, and on my last day, I decided to take a no-purpose walk through my favorite neighborhoods: the Marais, Montmartre, and Saint-Germain. I started in the Marais, walking along Rue des Rosiers, which is lined with Jewish bakeries and falafel shops. I stopped at a bakery and bought a pain au chocolat, my favorite, and then walked to Place des Vosges, the small park I’d discovered earlier. I sat on the same bench under the tree, eating my pastry, and watched the leaves fall. It felt like coming home.
Next, I took the Métro to Montmartre. I walked up Rue des Abbesses, stopping at Café des Deux Moulins for a coffee, and then climbed the stairs to the Sacré-Cœur. The view was just as beautiful as the first time I’d seen it, and I stood there for a long time, looking out at Paris. I walked to Place du Tertre, and the same painter who’d done my portrait was there. He waved at me, and I waved back. It was a small moment, but it made me smile.
Finally, I took the Métro to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, a neighborhood known for its cafés and bookstores. I walked to Café de Flore, the famous café where Sartre and de Beauvoir used to hang out, and sat at a table outside. I ordered a café crème and a croissant, and watched the people go by. There were students reading, tourists taking photos, and locals chatting. It was a perfect Parisian scene.
As I walked back to my hotel to pack, I thought about what I’d learned on this trip. It wasn’t just about the landmarks I’d seen or the food I’d eaten (though those were amazing). It was about slowing down, about taking time to enjoy the small things: a perfect croissant, a sunny afternoon in a park, a conversation with a stranger. In London, I’m always in a hurry—running to work, rushing to meetings, trying to fit too much into a day. But in France, I learned to relax. I learned to sit in a café for an hour, just watching the world go by. I learned to appreciate the beauty of a sunset over the Seine, or the sound of an accordion in a Métro station.
I also thought about the people I’d met: the kind man who helped me find my way to the RER B train, the waiter at Le Petit Prince who recommended the best croissants in the Marais, the local woman I met on the hike in Roussillon, the painter in Montmartre. They were all strangers, but they made my trip special. They showed me that France isn’t just a place—it’s a feeling, a way of life.
The next morning, I took a taxi to Charles de Gaulle Airport. As the taxi drove through Paris, I watched the landmarks go by: the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Sacré-Cœur. I felt sad to leave, but I also felt grateful. Grateful for the memories, grateful for the lessons, grateful for the chance to experience this beautiful country.
On the plane back to London, I looked out the window as we took off. Paris got smaller and smaller, until it was just a dot on the horizon. I pulled out my notebook and wrote down a few words: “France is a moveable feast. It’s in the croissants, the wine, the art, the people. It’s in the moments that take your breath away. I’ll be back.”
Appendix: Practical Tips
Visa
- If you’re from a non-EU country, you’ll need a Schengen visa to visit France. Apply at least 3 months before your trip, as processing times can be long.
- You’ll need to provide proof of accommodation, travel insurance, and sufficient funds to support yourself during your trip.
Transportation
- The Métro is the best way to get around Paris. Buy a Navigo Découverte card, which allows you to use the Métro, buses, and trams for a fixed price per week.
- TGV trains are the fastest way to travel between cities. Book in advance to get the best prices.
- In the Loire Valley, rent a bike to explore the castles and gardens—it’s a great way to see the countryside.
Accommodation
- In Paris, stay in the Marais or Montmartre for a lively atmosphere, or in Saint-Germain-des-Prés for a more sophisticated vibe.
- In the Loire Valley, stay in a chateau hotel for a unique experience.
- In Provence and the French Riviera, book accommodation in advance, especially during peak season (June-August).
Language
- Most Parisians speak English, but it’s polite to learn a few basic French phrases: “Bonjour,” “Merci,” “S’il vous plaît,” “Au revoir.”
- Download a translation app like Google Translate to help with more complex conversations.
Currency
- The currency in France is the Euro (€).
- Most shops and restaurants accept credit cards, but it’s a good idea to carry cash for small purchases and markets.
My Itinerary
- Days 1-7: Paris (explored landmarks, museums, and neighborhoods)
- Days 8-9: Loire Valley (visited Château de Chambord and Château de Chenonceau, stayed in Amboise)
- Days 10-12: Avignon and the Luberon Valley (visited Palais des Papes, Gordes, and Roussillon)
- Days 13-15: Nice, Cannes, and Antibes (explored the French Riviera)
- Day 16: Paris (farewell walk)
- Day 17: Return to London
Recommended Books and Films
- Books: A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik
- Films: Amélie, Before Sunset, A Good Year, Midnight in Paris
