Honeymoon Diaries: Paris, France (Part 2)

Day 2

Our second morning in Paris wreaked havoc on my self-confidence. As it turns out, hair tools from the United States are worthless abroad even with a universal plug converter. The higher voltage used by European grids was too much for my poor American straightener and rendered it unusable. The stress of travel also manifested as a river of cysts across my forehead and down my nose. Great, I was to spend the remaining fourteen days in Europe with frizzy hair and a rush of painful acne that would be forever immortalized in every honeymoon photo. I was crushed. This was not how I pictured I would look standing next to my hunky husband. In typical Ian fashion, he gave me a gentle but necessary get-your-head-out-of-your-ass pep talk. After wiping away my tears from frustration–and, frankly, exhaustion–we began our two-mile walk to our lunch reservation at Le Procope.

Le Procope offered the traditional French experience for which we we begged. The space held dark wooden furnishings, 19th century wallpaper peppered with oil portraits of philosophers, and richly colored textiles across its array of rooms. Ian’s voice from the day before rang in my head as I walked over to the hostess desk: “You know some French, Tay. Even if you don’t get it right, they will appreciate you just trying. If they don’t, then they’re simply in the wrong and you did your best.”

With sweat beading across my forehead, I walked over to the hostess who met me with a soft grin. So French. I told her in my best French that we had a reservation for two at noon, and it is under the name West. She didn’t even blink before clicking through the reservations and responding very fast in her native tongue (at least fast for me). I exhaled sheepishly and confessed in my limited vocabulary that only knew a bit of French and she may need to speak slower or in English. The hostess whipped her head back up in the truest form of bafflement I’d ever seen in a stranger and said in accented English, “Your French is very good! Please do not apologize!”

I was over the moon as we were escorted to our table. We started our meal with a toast of Kir Royales followed by a selection from Le Procope’s historical recipes: Calf’s Head as in 1686 and Traditional Coq Au Vin “Ivre de Juliénas”. Paired with their recommended red, the coq au vin was velvety and delicious; however, there was nothing we could have done to make calf’s head taste like anything other than what it sounded like on paper. When presented with the dessert and digestif menus, Ian became enamored with the idea of having an absinthe drip.

The waiter placed a fountain of ice water in the middle of the table followed by glass of absinthe with a silver spoon delicately balanced across its mouth. A single cube of granulated sugar was placed on the spoon and was left to be saturated by the slow drip of the fountain. Once the drink was cloudy, it was considered ready. Ian enjoyed every sip. I did not.

Because the Summer Olympics recently concluded, we had the special opportunity to explore the Louvre’s temporary exhibition of Olympism – Modern Invention, Ancient Legacy the day before its finale. We were inches away from ancient Greek tokens of the first Olympic games: trophies, stamps, letters, vases. All humbling reminders of the lasting tradition of the parade and appreciation of human strength and endurance. Looking through this one exhibit took almost two whole hours. By then, we were exhausted and a bit cranky because of the aching in our feet. Miss Mona Lisa, forgive us, but we will have the pleasure of your company another time.

That night we met our favorite person in all of Paris (other than Jean-Christophe, of course). Xavier managed Cafe Caillou, the charming wine bistro we stumbled into on our way back from sight-seeing and window shopping. Though we didn’t enter the cafe hungry, we found ourselves ravenous for the friendship of Xavier and his staff. Always smiling and laughing, Xavier’s attentiveness made us feel as if we were long-time regulars. The three of us drank Mad Dog shots together in celebration of our upcoming visit to Poland, and Xavier revealed that he also managed a restaurant in Krakow. Unfortunately, we could not manage to make it to Lesu Wine & Dine, but this just means we have to come back!

The visit ended with a perfect crème brûlée and the presentation of a couple glasses of dark liquor that Xavier turned into a guessing game. After many sips, Ian and I still did not have a clue what we were drinking. It was sweet like a brandy, but spicy like a whiskey. Thankfully, the bartender came to our rescue by silently catching our eyes and mouthed the word “rum”. Once Xavier came to clear our plates, we announced our final guess. He smiled, paused, looked back at the bearded man behind the bar, then said “He told you, didn’t he?”

Ian and I skipped down the Parisian streets completely intoxicated with both French wine and the celebration of new friendships. How did we manage to have this kind of luck? Weren’t the French supposed to be rude, arrogant American haters? This had not been our experience at all. Looking at the time, we realized if we hurried, we could see the Eiffel Tower christen the night’s sky for the first time. We ran back into Cafe Caillou and asked our friend where we could get a bottle of champagne. Bottle in hand, we nabbed a front row seat on the lawn and sat patiently in each other’s arms on the cool grass. In less than a blink, the tower sparkled prettier than the stars we sat under.

Day 3

Ian and I were married at the Harvard Club of Boston. We stay there every time we are in the city, and it has become a place of refuge for us. Because of this, we made ourselves familiar with its reciprocal clubs across the world that we can visit as members. After a formal introduction and a reservation for lunch, we were able to visit the Cercle de l’Union Interalliée during our trip to Paris. According to its website, “The Interallié was created in 1917 with the purpose of being a place for the welcome and exchanges between the officers and the political leaders of the Allies.” We were stoked to have the opportunity to visit a historic place of such importance; however, we would soon be in awe of just how grand the Cercle de l’Union Interalliée is.

This building was not an easy one to locate. Ian and I walked up and down the stone sidewalk more times than I care to disclose looking for a clear entrance. While searching, we found two gigantic black doors opened to what was a beautifully manicured lot meant for chauffeurs to pull through and drop off visitors. The name of the establishment was not displayed, and the entrance was blocked off by orange cones. We wouldn’t have been able to get a closer look anyway because before we could identify the building, a tall man in a military uniform and dominance-establishing assault rifle strapped across his chest stalked over to us pointing aggressively to the other side of the street.

Holy shit. My heart jumped, and I scrambled across the street not caring to look both ways. Ian placed a hand on my back and whispered calmly, “I think that’s the British Embassy.” Ian went on to marvel at the type of gun the man was carrying and spouted out all sorts of fun facts about the weapon’s specifications. I don’t know what disturbed me more, the feeling of having such a deadly machine so close to me, or that my husband seemed to know everything about it.

After finally locating the entrance to Cercle de l’Union Interalliée, we sat down in an immaculate dining space with gilded ceilings, delicate wallpaper, and crystal chandeliers. Tables clothed in white linen were accompanied by chairs purposefully situated so you could look out into the gardens. Our meal was incredible and the staff were perfectly professional and attentive. Never had I ever experience a cheese and dessert trolley, and I plan to find every opportunity to enjoy it again.

In a state of pure satisfaction and appropriate gluttony, Ian and I explored the building that could have put any Bridgerton mansion to shame. Sprawling marble staircases with red, velvet carpeting led us up to a ballroom with parquet floors and an array of oil portraits, a dining room with unimaginably tall powder blue walls of curtains, and hallways resided by statues of figures of which I would not dare attempt recognition. The splendor overwhelmed me, and as much as I adored drinking every detail of the royal display, there came a point when I desperately longed to slouch.

Feeling the relief of being back on the sidewalk with air I felt welcome to breathe in abundance, Ian and I took our time window shopping, walking down streets with architecture I’ve only seen in movies and dreams. When our feet pounded for less attention, we stopped for a snack break at the famous Harry’s New York Bar where we purchased a couple drinks and the first hot dog we had seen in Europe.

For dinner, we stopped in an unassuming diner with twinkle lights and a smiling hostess and feasted on frog legs and Pinot Grigio. For anyone wondering, frog legs are basically French chicken wings. They are coated in a dry rub, drizzled with lemon juice, and you eat them with your hands. The dish even comes with little wipes to clean your fingers. Granted, our sweet server did tell us that frog legs are not a typical meal the French eat anymore but was excited that we wanted to experience them.

Before every Monoprix closed for the night, Ian grabbed some supplies for a charcuterie snack and a couple bottles of champagne. He drew me a warm bath when we arrived at our Airbnb, and we sat in our marble bathroom sipping from glass flutes from our host’s kitchen watching the Eiffel Tower glitter from our window.

Day 4

Our last day in Paris. I couldn’t believe it. We just got here. We’ve barely scraped the surface of everything this city has to offer. Did we have to leave? As we walked to our brunch reservation at Les Deux Magots, Ian vowed that us leaving the city with a leftover wanting simply meant we’d have to visit again. Oh, do I plan on holding you to that one, honey.

Snagging a table on the patio of Les Deux Magots, a famous literary cafe, has to be the epitome of Parisian cafe culture. The vast amount of foot traffic that area receives keeps your people-watching desire quenched, and its popularity attracts not only tourists but bees. Bees were everywhere in Paris, but they flooded this cafe specifically. So much so, our poor server had to trap a particularly mean one in the bowl of my wine glass to save our dining experience. Deftly, he imprisoned the pest and brought me a new drink without a word.

Full of tartare de beouf, escargot, and chocolat chaud, the pair of us strolled into a bookstore to replace the book I left on the airplane. With the security of having reading material for the rest of the trip, Ian and I went on our first intentional Parisian shopping spree. “Spree”, of course, used lightly as suitcase space was precious. Ian bought me gorgeous burgundy leather boots, and he tried on a few different Seiko watches that we promised we’d go back and purchase after more exploration (I’ll never forgive myself for not forcing us to keep this promise).

Our afternoon ended earlier than usual so we could have ample time to freshen up before our dinner at Arpège. This was our first ever visit to a Michelin star restaurant, and it did not disappoint. Each staff member was knowledgeable and more than willing to answer our questions about the meal and recommend wine pairings. As the food was presented, I thought I had an understanding of what “fresh” tasted like, but I am happy to say I was ignorant until the privilege of this multi-course indulgence. My only wish is that I took a picture of our menu to remember what each of our 10+ courses were. We did our best to capture our meal in the photos below, but–as it is so often the case–pictures don’t do this once-in-a-lifetime experience justice.

My heart ached as we waddled into our Uber with bursting bellies and enlightened palates. The night beckoned to us with silhouettes of Haussmannian buildings and the yellow glow of open bars preparing for the first round of nightlife enthusiasts. I silently begged our driver to slow down, so I could memorize the streets, the corners, the light. Never had I thought I’d be in Paris, this city of my childhood fantasies, with someone I could never imagine deserving. Ian offered his arm as I stepped out of the car, and we stood at the corner of our street–yes, our street–under the trees in the moonlight. He wore his blue suit, the one he wore when I met him. He smelled of Chanel Bleu, the cologne he wore on our wedding day. He looked at me like he always looks at me, and I knew no one had ever been so lucky to be alive than I.

Here’s A Toast

“My closing thoughts are for Ian. I hope these pages adequately reflect my undying devotion and enchantment with you and this amazing love we foster relentlessly and effortlessly. You are my muse and the most beautiful subject for city and countryside to host. Thank you for your bravery and generosity of spirit. It is my honor to forever do life with you.” – Journal entry excerpt from September 20th, 2024

Cheers!