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Illustration by Alex Siklos
Sixteen years is a long time.
I first went to Paris a wide-eyed and trepidatious 18-year-old on her first backpacking trip through Europe. The busy boulevards, the fancy cafés and the fashionable people made me fall in love instantly. I stood out with my worn sneakers and unwashed hostel hair, but I didn’t care.
A couple of years later, I found myself on a semester abroad in the medieval town of Leuven, Belgium – known for two things, its university and as the home of Stella Artois. I participated in both with equal fervour. Since it is a mere two-hour train ride from the French capital, I went back.
Slightly less wide-eyed this time, I thought to myself, “This is what cultured grown-ups must do. You just go to Paris every couple years. I’ll be back soon.” So I figured I’d go to the Musée d’Orsay next time (my feet hurt from too much walking) and I’d wait to drink wine on the Seine at sunset (I already had too much anyway). It wouldn’t be long before I found myself here again.
But at that age, there’s so much you can’t see ahead of you. You don’t understand that life starts to flood in.
You can’t know it’ll be 16 whole years before you find yourself in Paris again, as a very different version of yourself.
Those years in my 20s were full of a lot of alone time. I lived alone, worked all day alone and, if I did travel, it was alone. I got accustomed to the uncomfortable feeling of being alone. I wouldn’t say I always enjoyed it, but it was just … there.
Then I met my husband, and no longer travelled or lived alone. But building your career and family simultaneously leaves little room for weekend trips to Paris.
Then we had our daughter. The ultimate joy. The ultimate anchor. I lost all sense of what it was like to ever be alone.
Sure, you can travel with a baby, but as I soon found out when we took our six-month-old to Florida, it’s a little different to say the least.
I was a mom. First and foremost. My downtime, when I had any, was spent folding little clothes and registering for little tots swimming lessons, not planning my next adventure. Like every mom, I loved my new life. But sometimes I hated it. Sometimes, I yearned for a past version of myself. The version that was responsible only to herself. The version that went to Paris twice in three years.
Shortly after my daughter’s second birthday, we found out I was pregnant again. Now I had a closing window of opportunity. My daughter was old enough and independent enough to go without me for a few days, and maybe, just maybe, I could get away on my own again.
I booked my ticket to Paris the next day.
I would get to experience something I hadn’t experienced in a long time: my own company. For five days, I would stop being a mother and wife, and would only need to listen to the whims of my own desires.
Sixteen years had gone by, but not surprisingly, Paris’s charms hadn’t changed much. The streets were still gorgeously wide. The architecture still amazing. The croissants still plentiful. Aside from the new structures being erected for the coming Olympics, it was virtually the same.
I sat with a book at a café, uninterrupted. I went to museum upon museum. I went into boutique vintage stores. I walked and I walked and I walked until my legs were sore.
I was alone. Just me. The freedom I hadn’t felt in years was back.
Yes, I did go to the Musée d’Orsay. No, I did not drink a bottle of wine by the Seine.
However, something unexpected happened: The freedom of being alone soon morphed into its less desirable, emotional cousin – loneliness.
I had forgotten this feeling. It had been so long. Something was missing. I wanted to turn to my husband and share a bite of my baguette. I wanted to pick my daughter up and show her a Degas.
I expected to reconnect with a part of myself that I thought was still in there somewhere. But I’m not certain she is. Somewhere along the way, the girl and young woman that did everything by herself was left behind, and replaced with a more mature version that realized it was okay to be attached to others.
I miss her, sometimes. But c’est la vie.
Loneliness can remind you of what’s truly important. Five days in Paris was grand, but I was shown that no amount of camembert can replace what truly fills you up. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than on my couch, surrounded by the mess of toys and half-eaten snacks, watching cartoons with the truest loves I’ve ever known.
In another 16 years, my daughter will be the age I was when I first set foot in the city. Perhaps that’ll be the perfect excuse for another trip. But who am I kidding? She’ll probably want to be alone.
Alix Gould-Baker lives in Hamilton.