There's a spot in Paris where I like to share my macarons, on the Île Saint-Louis. Pulling the ribbon on the tiny box, gilded with tradition and a flair for good living, and sharing them here is the perfect start for a romantic afternoon with my favorite travel partner—my girlfriend—and my favorite city.
Nibbling our pastel confections, we dangle our legs over the tip of the island that splits the River Seine and the city. Behind us towers Notre Dame, its rebuilding after a tragic fire a testimony to the city's commitment to its heritage. Ahead of us are bridges celebrating kings and emperors with medallions glinting in the morning sun.
Paris is a city for walking, hand in hand, with just the right person. In a tiny park on the Île Saint-Louis, we listen as pétanque balls crack against each other and old-timers cackle. We share a Monet moment by a pond with water lilies where children push tiny boats with sticks.
We celebrate the chance to become temporary Parisians, vowing to blend in, to join in. We relish the novelties (like poodles actually sitting on chairs in cafés). We find comfort in the universalities (like children working on their social skills in the sandbox at the Place des Vosges). Strolling along a market street, we're reminded how the city is really a collection of neighborhoods. We shop for strawberries in the market like locals. We covet the countless goat cheeses spilling from the fromagerie onto sidewalk racks. We mark a chance meeting of friends with air kisses just beyond each cheek.
We're not really hungry, but two rattan chairs and a rickety table at the corner bistro are too inviting to ignore. Settling in, we are thankful that we really do like snails, if they come with enough garlic. The rapid-fire, curiously appetizing sound of the knife slicing the baguette signals that another woven basket piled with crunchy bread is on the way, the better for soaking up every bit of that buttery sauce. We cock our ears for the mouthwatering sound of the little spoon cracking through the crème brûlée. And then we devour it slowly. We pause, we reflect, settling ever deeper into our wicker chairs. We sip pastis, that anise-flavored liqueur that demands you just sit and experience it. It's so Parisian.
After climbing the steps of Montmartre, we grab a perch at the top. From here, we survey the city as it sprawls before us. France, like every culture, has a soul, the accretion of art, history, the people, and their struggles. We ponder how, for generations, it's been the fringe of Parisian society who've enjoyed this view—the bohemians of each age. There's a kind of communion here, on the steps of Montmartre. As we cuddle, so do strangers around us. They may be of a different generation and a different nationality, they may speak a different language, but there's a oneness, an intimacy of being surrounded by strangers carrying on their own love affairs with Paris.
As we look out over Europe's grandest skyline, the sun sets, and the City of Light starts to turn itself on. District by district, neighborhoods are illuminated. As if all connected to a sliding switch, the monuments glow brighter. And then, at the top of the hour, as church bells ring, the Eiffel Tower twinkles on like a constellation in the Paris sky.
We put our phones away, thankful we have nothing scheduled but time together.
This article appeared in the March 2022 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
