It all started with a group chat. One minute I was casually talking with my cousins about a wedding, and the next thing I knew, I was invited to that wedding in Paris. Paris! How do you even pretend to be calm about that? Within minutes I went from “Aww, how sweet” to panic-Googling flights like I was planning an international jewel heist. Paris has always felt like this dreamy, faraway fantasy, so the idea of celebrating love there felt like stepping straight into a fairytale.
Once the shock settled, my Type A brain came alive. I opened a fresh Google Spreadsheet, color coded everything, and even made a custom Google Map because apparently I turn into a full-blown cartographer when I am excited. And of course, I asked ChatGPT for ideas and suddenly was planning a whole French lifestyle. Viator became my new best friend. This last-minute trip was quickly becoming something beautifully curated. I still could not believe I was actually going to Paris.
The journey started with a 10-hour flight from Los Angeles that went by surprisingly fast thanks to “The Court of Thorns and Roses”. If you have not read Sarah J. Maas yet, please reconsider your life choices. When I arrived at Charles de Gaulle, the traffic reminded me of Downtown LA, but then the city opened up and I saw the Seine, the rooftops, and the Eiffel Tower. I pressed my face to the window like a kid. It finally felt real. My hotel, Hôtel Bleu de Grenelle, was small, cozy, and right next to the Metro, surrounded by cafés and bakeries. I kept it simple that first night with McDonald’s because French fries in France felt too poetic to pass up.
The wedding the next day was pure magic. Intimate, emotional, joyful. Watching two people promise forever in Paris felt like being inside a romantic film. I kept looking around thinking, I get to be here. How lucky is that?
The following day I joined a walking food tour, and honestly, it could have been an entire trip on its own. Our guide had so much passion for Parisian food that every stop felt special. We tasted perfect croissants, dreamy macarons from Pierre Hermé, cheese that deserved its own award show, savory galettes, quiche, lemon tart, charcuterie, and ended with wine in the coziest bar imaginable. By the end, I was fully convinced I could live in Paris on pastries alone.
That evening I met up with my family for dinner at Le Calife, a beautiful boat restaurant on the Seine. The rain kept it docked, but it still felt like something out of a storybook. Sometimes the nights that go “wrong” end up being the ones you cherish most.
My last full day was a whirlwind private tour with a local guide. We visited the Eiffel Tower, Hôtel des Invalides, the Musée d’Orsay, the Louvre, Place Vendôme, Montmartre, and Sacré-Cœur. I ate Quiche Lorraine at Pain Pain, sipped hot wine in the drizzle, wandered through artist squares, and even saw a sculpture of a man walking through a wall. By the end of the day I was soaked, tired, and so unbelievably happy.
That is what Paris does. It makes you feel alive and grateful, like you stumbled into a dream you didn’t know you needed. I felt brave. I felt lucky. And I knew I would be back. Save me a croissant. À la prochaine.