Calorie-free macarons. Vintage Chanel and Hermès handbags for ten euros in every store. A view of the Eiffel Tower from every street corner. And handsome French garçons buying me croissants, vying for my amour. To my simple seventh grade brain, a parent-free Parisian jaunt with my classmates sounded like a perfect oasis, with only a mere five years separating me from my dreams. I’m a planner, there’s no doubt about it. Months before the official itinerary was issued during the spring of my junior year, I researched average temperatures, what stores were in walking distance of famous monuments, and how many crêpes I could buy without maxing out my credit card (exactly 14.7 per day if I bought nothing else). I couldn’t wait to see the Mona Lisa
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Anyone who owns a camera phone can take Instagram-worthy pictures of all the famous monuments. My favorite memories of France are the spontaneous, “we don’t know where we’re going, but we’re gonna go” ones. Like when, after stuffing ourselves with cheese and bread that somehow qualified as dinner, my friends and I unearthed a secret staircase to an elevated walkway leading around the enclosed city. We spent what seemed like hours guessing what TV shows were playing in each apartment and recounting hilarious “lost in translation” mishaps, all while watching the city change with the passing hours. Street lights flickered on while I shared a particularly cringe-worthy moment (I had determinedly responded to a question about college alternating between “oui” and “non” before I realised the answer should have been a state or region). Shops began to close as we pleured over impending AP tests and finals. And we cursed the rains that left us damp for the half an hour train ride home from Versailles, but desperately trying to dry our clothes and hair with a single travel hair dryer shared between six girls proved to be more memorable, through singed sweaters and shorted-out adapters. Dancing around the bathroom made to uncomfortably fit one person with all six of us jostling for a prime view of the mirror before the Eiffel Tower dinner was a better time than the meal itself (not enough bread and too many illegal ingredients according to
Anyone who owns a camera phone can take Instagram-worthy pictures of all the famous monuments. My favorite memories of France are the spontaneous, “we don’t know where we’re going, but we’re gonna go” ones. Like when, after stuffing ourselves with cheese and bread that somehow qualified as dinner, my friends and I unearthed a secret staircase to an elevated walkway leading around the enclosed city. We spent what seemed like hours guessing what TV shows were playing in each apartment and recounting hilarious “lost in translation” mishaps, all while watching the city change with the passing hours. Street lights flickered on while I shared a particularly cringe-worthy moment (I had determinedly responded to a question about college alternating between “oui” and “non” before I realised the answer should have been a state or region). Shops began to close as we pleured over impending AP tests and finals. And we cursed the rains that left us damp for the half an hour train ride home from Versailles, but desperately trying to dry our clothes and hair with a single travel hair dryer shared between six girls proved to be more memorable, through singed sweaters and shorted-out adapters. Dancing around the bathroom made to uncomfortably fit one person with all six of us jostling for a prime view of the mirror before the Eiffel Tower dinner was a better time than the meal itself (not enough bread and too many illegal ingredients according to