Did I make a horrible mistake?
I woke up like a punch to the gut.
How am I going to make money?
Will I ever speak French without sounding like I’m chewing marbles?
What if I never see my friends again?
Every doubt rolled through me, dragging bile with it.
I think I might throw up.
Who packs up their entire life in two days and just goes? No plan, no backup.
Was this a horrible idea?
And why did I only bring one pair of pants?
Maybe I’m too anxious to have fun.
I asked my friend (the one I’m staying with) if he wanted to go out since it’s Sunday and he doesn’t have work. A little wandering, maybe a café or two?
To my chagrin, he said no. Something about computer stuff and errands.
At first, I was annoyed. Didn’t he invite me to stay here? Didn’t he say he was excited to see me? Now it’s day after day of being ghosted... in person. I know this is his regular life, but I’m brand new here. So new, I still struggle to read signs and order basic things like coffee.
Fine. I’ll go without him.
I head outside, nerves ping-ponging through my chest. I pull up Google Maps, determined to visit just one outdoor market today. Baby steps. A blogger I follow recommended the one near Montmartre—Marché Bastille. Easy enough, right?
Wrong.
I finally make it to the train station, only to be met with an annoyingly chipper French voice making the same announcement over and over. Turns out the train I need is skipping this station.
Perfect.
Cue tears. Uncontrollable, silent sobbing.
Oui, c’est vraiment embarrassing.
It’s just a train. But I feel helpless. Hopeless.
Why am I even trying to move here if I can’t navigate the metro or speak the language? (Despite years of French lessons, I might add.)
Three deep breaths. I regroup. Google says I can take a local train that’ll get me close-ish. I decide to wing it and walk the rest.
Six stops later, I end up somewhere in the second arrondissement. Head down, glued to my phone, I bump into someone and finally look up.
And there it is.
One of the largest churches I’ve ever seen: Église Saint-Eustache.
So I go in.
It smells like something old and sacred, stone and creek water.
Huge stained glass windows, quiet candles flickering at the altar, it’s absolutely stunning.
I wander in awe, wondering how this even got built.
When I finally emerge, the smell of roasted chicken hits me. I follow my nose and stumble upon another outdoor market winding down. I meander through it, snapping photos of all the produce, cheeses, spices, and meats.
I keep walking until I find a charming street full of cafés and brasseries. Tourists are everywhere (rolling suitcases and loud English gave them away).
Then I spot it: Galette.
I know what that is. I know it’s delicious. So I stop.
I try ordering in French. After a little back-and-forth, the waiter pauses and asks, “Tu parles Anglais?”
I sheepishly nod. He smiles and switches to broken English. Turns out he’s learning, too.
I apologize for my butchered French. He shrugs and tells me I’m doing well. And if anyone makes fun of me for trying, well they aren’t good people to be around anyway. Then we talk—really talk. He’s curious about the States:
“Is the gun violence really that bad?”
“What do you normally eat?”
“Where exactly is Washington, D.C.?”
“And what do you mean it’s political?”
He brings me a glass of cider (their specialty) and my galette—ham and cheese perfection.
As I eat and people-watch, he returns. Introduces himself as Louka. Asks if he can sit with me during his break.
A kindness I desperately needed.
We chat and munch. He brings over different spices, insists I try them. (He’s right. Instantly better.)
When his break ends, I muster every ounce of courage and ask for his contact info, maybe we could hang out sometime?
He lights up. “Of course! I’d love to go to a movie with you. American films are my favorite. There’s one coming out I’ve been dying to see.”
He gives me directions to a spot by the Seine with street vendors, and just like that, I’m off again.
Maybe (just maybe) this wasn’t the worst idea after all.
