When I realized our European family vacation (to Amsterdam then Ghent) ended with Keith flying with our high-schooler to Iowa for the National Debate Tournament, I thought, “If they’re not flying home, why should I?” Why not stay an extra few days? The question evolved to…where?

Always one to let fate decide, I directed my travel agent (read: husband) to check which airports had the cheapest return fare. Answer? Frankfurt or Paris. I debated for about fifteen seconds but runny cheese always beats not runny cheese. So…Paris!

Tickets booked, I had this immediate picture of myself wandering the streets of Paris, unfettered by the many obligations that enrich my life, yes, but also hem it in. Running with this image, I decided I’d make this a totally different trip. I would make ZERO plans. I would have NOWHERE to be. I would lose track of time as a construct as I wandered hither and yon, sighing with the utter pleasure of my own company and the unfolding revelation that is Paris in springtime.

What a load of ripe horse manure.

That was my first thought on arrival, confused by which metro I was supposed to take, given I didn’t have service underground. Plus, no matter how many times I study maps of Paris and no matter how casually I’ve learned to ask, “So which arrondissement are you staying in?” I secretly have no conception of which direction they spiral. Which makes it hard to find anything on a map, even “north”.

My second thought? Why must I overly romanticize EVERYTHING?

My third thought, perhaps not entirely disconnected from the second, was a discovery of the depth of my anxiety.

Like, crushing anxiety. Not only that, I was so used to referring to those around me rather than cuing into my own body signals, I couldn’t even tell if I was hungry or thirsty or tired.

After checking into my apartment, I listlessly wandered the surrounding streets. Unable to approach any shop, as the windows and doors felt magnetically repellant. How could I summon enthusiasm for all the pretty things I could not have?

Now, anxiety and I are old buddies. And yet this flavor felt unfamiliar.

As I stared at the Seine, I wondered—was it a fear of people laughing at my bad French? That did not feel accurate. On the Ghent leg of our trip, I delighted in arriving in Brussels when I could relax into a little French instead of struggling through Flemish. And I know that’s not due to my impeccable Belgian accent.

My eyes followed a boat slipping down the Seine. Wasn’t the water supposed to be clean for the Olympics? Looked the same to me. I didn't see anyone cavorting in the water. Why did people call Paris the most romantic city in the world? It was boring. Look there… another place to buy purses. Boring.

I sighed. This negativity felt foreign. It had to be the voice of this odd anxiety.

I kept mulling. Was I scared to make a mistake? That felt closer, but still not quite right. I’ve worked on that in a robust way over the past decade, much of that in the pages of my memoir about living in Italy. Spello inoculated me to the allergy of looking foolish; astute readers may remember Angelo calling me “pig skin” for a time after my misadventure with the ingredient. I bounced back and thus learned that I can bounce back.

Scowling at the clouds threatening rain, I couldn’t figure it out what was happening to me.

I did, however, notice that the restless ogres got quieter the louder my stomach rumbled. My stomach, as it turns out, does not need me to refer to other people to see if I am hungry. It began shouting. I tried to decide if pick something up in a grocery store or walking into a restaurant felt more scary.

Spying a a cat on a leash outside a shop in a leafy square, I stopped to chuckle. This small moment crumpled a corner of the anxiety. Then I spotted a restaurant.

I forced myself, shoehorn-style, into the restaurant and muddled through ordering a warm goat cheese salad and a glass of white wine from a very cheerful and obliging waiter. On the walk back, I felt better, but still pretty riddled with nerves.

I frowned. This was not at all the blissful image of myself tossing a beret into the air and laughing as the wind made it dance.

After a period of listless wandering, I gave myself permission to order Vietnamese food takeout (reasoning there’s some connection between France and Vietnam I can never keep straight, so it counted) in my apartment. I would eat it and watch Brooklyn 99 and tuck in early to make up for my poor sleep the night before. I would not spend one moment castigating myself for wasting my precious Paris time.

And that’s exactly what happened.

I woke up the next morning…ready. Not “tossing a beret” ready, but ready enough to try my luck at a bakery. Fortified with pan au chocolate and a cappuccino (okay, and a brioche), I felt strong enough to take it bit by bit, step by step. Salami at a butcher shop. A baguette because Paris. I formed a plan.

NO!

Didn’t I tell myself?

NO. PLANS.

Into the breach came a nudge of greater understanding. Maybe what I pictured all those months ago…maybe it doesn’t work for me.

Kind of like when I first started writing novels, I learned that there are two kinds of authors—those that write by the seat of their pants and those that plot out their chapters. Since I’m the latter, I assumed the former to be the mark of a true artist. Given I would like to be a true artist, I tried to pants my way through writing a novel and not only was it torture, it had all the narrative tautness of a cable company’s terms of service. Only with more plot holes. In that moment, I realized… I am NOT a pantser. I will never be a pantser. I am a plotter, and good for me that I figured out the most joyful and liberating way to get words on a page.

Well, it turns out, I am also a plotter when it comes to travel. In much the same way as I am with writing—I don’t need all the details spelled out, just a guide rail so I know where I’m going (leaving moments for characters and street corners to surprise me). Otherwise, I wind up walking in circles like a duck with one bum wing, quacking restlessly at the wind.

This clicked everything into sharp relief. As a writer, as a traveler, I need a little direction.

I took a breath.

And prepared to let go of my idea of what solo travel is supposed to look like.

And in this way, invited happiness and liberation into my Parisian days.

So what was my plan? Home picnics each day for lunch. This not only served to punctuate my days, but my favorite foods are bread and cheese and the like. A home picnic allowed me to have these every day. I could purchase provisions on day one, then each day I would only need to buy a baguette. A pleasure.

Side bonus? Buying those supplies gave me loads of practice. By the time I hit the cheese shop, I not only managed the whole thing in French but also asked a question and had a little laugh with the cheese monger about a shared love of strong and creamy cheeses. I left feeling like I’d slain a dragon and maybe might gnaw on its bones.

Actually, this wound up being pretty prescient as I found a rotisserie chicken vendor selling quarters of chicken. A find! Parisian rotisserie chicken is one of my favorite foods, one I figured denied to me as a solo traveler. A mere €3,50 for a bit of heaven!

After a stop at a farmer’s market for cucumbers and radishes (the vendor wasn’t nearly as kindly as the cheese monger, but I was too high on success to care), I arrived home and dragged the table to the windows, which I flung open to drink in the streetscape below.

Another thing about me that I’m just going to accept is that while I love picnic foods, I’m not wild about picnics unless they involve a table. Bins of olives toppling over, getting salami rinds mixed with the grapes, cheese sticking to the wax paper because it can’t spread out—it’s not for me.

Giddy (and starving) from my successful marketing, I opened all my parcels, arranging the cheeses onto a plate and the salami onto a cutting board with the cucumber and radishes. Unwrapping the chicken, I stalled. This was not a chicken quarter. This was a chicken whole. A whole chicken! For me! It felt the universe was blessing all my discoveries. I texted a photo of my blessing chicken to Keith who had had to listen to me moan about how I wouldn’t be able to feast on rotisserie chicken.

I typed: “It’s not my fault!”

His response: “It’s an accidental chicken?”

Indeed.

I savored every bite and may or may not have gnawed on the bones.

And thus my days took a little form.

Each morning, I took the cheese out of the fridge so it could soften by lunch time and then I’d head out with a couple of ideas of what I wanted to do during the day. I’d come home for lunch and a little rest and then head back out again. At least one apero in the afternoon. And I made reservations for dinner because it turns out I like knowing where my supper is coming from. Or mostly, I don’t like the feeling of wandering aimlessly when I’m hungry, checking one place after another to try to decide what’s good and then circling back to the second place, or maybe it was the third.

One day I forgot to take the cheese out and only remembered when I wandered a market and saw a cheese stand. I hightailed it back to the apartment to rescue the cheese, feeling like a true Parisian. For the fromage!

It was close to lunch though, so I made an impulsive decision to have ice cream from Berthillon (roasted pineapple and fresh basil) right then and have a later lunch. Flexible guard rails. It’s how I soar.

So I forgot about the fear and anxiety and mostly just felt shocked and relieved that it went away. It wasn’t until I was home and talking to my dear friend and mentor Dave (the one The Road Taken is dedicated to) that I figured it out. I use the phrase “I figured it out” loosely here because, in fact, Dave figured it out. Not a huge surprise. I’ve grown to consider Dave my brother from a different mother, generation, family structure, and time zone.

how to travel alone (it's better than therapy)

Anyway, over French 75’s, Dave nodded, “Michelle, I know exactly what happened.”

Do tell.

“You want to meet everyone’s expectation, to make things easier for all. Just arriving, unsure of the rules, you didn’t know how. You got lost.”

THAT’S IT!

Keith rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but that didn’t happen in Amsterdam or Ghent. You didn’t worry about meeting anybody’s expectation there.”

“That’s because I could meet yours. And the kids. You guys trump.”

He got quiet.

Dave and I smiled. He totally nailed it. But he knew that already.

Because it’s true that once I figured out who I was in Paris, it all got easier. It wasn’t complex or nuanced, I was: “the American tourist who tries.” Parisians responded to me totally differently than the Americans around me, because I tried. I filled a different bracket. They spoke to me in French, helped me out when they could. Get this—at one dinner, I worked to convey to the waiter how completely transcendent my duck had been. He laughed and I was pretty sure said he’d tell the chef. To which I thought, “I mean, you do you, but I’m sure the chef knows they prepared this duck well.” Then the bill came—20% off. Just the duck.

I tried. I tried with the language, and I also tried to be myself, in a foreign country.

And another dragon bites the dust.

Another reason I’m sure Dave is right is that I noticed a powerful sense of relief on that first day once I looked up one thing: cafe etiquette. Before, I didn’t understand how to tell when to plop into a chair or when to wait for a waiter to seat you. In that not knowing, I sailed by cafe after cafe, pretending I didn’t want anything anyway.

But once I researched the etiquette (and isn’t etiquette just a fancy Frenchy word for expectation?), I began slowing my steps whenever I passed a promising cafe. I scanned for an open seat, skipping over any tables with silverware, as those are reserved for people ordering food. Dropping into a chair, I scanned the menu, and then decided if I wanted my usual Kir (creme de cassis with white wine or champagne for a Kir Royale) or something different, like a Salers (what’s a Salers? Who cares! Bring it on).

The waiter or waitress nodded along to my order (sometimes correcting my French on hard words like Salers, for which, as “the American tourist who tries”, I felt grateful for), and I took out my book and settled in. I know French waiters have a reputation for being rude, but boy, I loved each and every one of them. They did not look at me unless I asked for the bill. Not a bit of side eye. Which meant I knew I wasn’t bothering anyone by blissfully turning page after page of my book while I sipped my Kir. I could be there for an hour, alternatively reading and people watching, protected within my own little bubble of joy.

I wrapped up The Coffee Trader on my first day, read The Paris Novel the next few days, and then started One More Croissant for the Road on my last day.

Besides a lot of sitting in parks and cafes and restaurants, I also…

wandered the Jewish Quarter and read a list of names of Parisians killed in the holocaust, not even realizing until my flight back when I got the information from my cousin that I missed seeing my grandfather’s first wife’s name on the Shoah Memorial
went to the Museum of Hunting and Nature, to which Keith said, “So you’ve exhausted everything Paris has to offer?” Haha. But, oh, I love a quirky museum and this one delivered in spades.
found the Anne Frank garden, what a gem
wandered the Marché des Enfants Rouges, a fabulous and very atmospheric covered market
walked back and forth down the Rue Rambuteau, breathing deeply to inhale the scents of pastéis de nata (sweet Portuguese egg tarts with a slightly salty crust) and falafels and brioche stuffed with lobster.
watched police in riot gear run past the Place des Vosges and followed to find a protest against the far right. Wave after wave of peaceful protesters surged by, holding signs I translated with the help of Google Translate
listened while wiggling a little to a band on the Seine

The last day was my favorite. All dragons vanquished, I stood straighter, emboldened. I walked around the Ile Saint-Louis eating another ice cream (a scoop of apricot and a scoop of gianduja with orange this time) from Berthillon. I went to Shakespeare and Company and bought a book. Since I’d just finished The Paris Novel which is set partly in this storied English language bookstore, I thrilled to every nook and cranny. I walked past an oyster restaurant a little too tremulous because I didn’t know how to pronounce oysters, but then I stopped at the corner and Googled how to say it and practiced under my breath before marching back and plopping at a table with silverware. I ordered with what might be construed as an air of authority. At least I didn’t order in English. I sat alternately slurping my oysters and sipping a crisp white wine as I watched people pass, my book forgotten beside me. I wondered, “Have I ever been this happy?”

Literally. I wasn’t sure.

Perhaps I should add here that I love my family, or perhaps you know that without my making it explicit. Either way, I realized something shocking. Without the distractions of co-travelers, I only had one thing.

Me.

Which meant I noticed everything. Every scent, every color, every flavor, every crackle of croissant.

I don’t think I’ve ever been as in the present as I was in Paris, totally tuned into my own experience, without the filter of anyone else’s.

What a gift.

The dragons waved goodbye and I went to a thrift store to buy sunglasses.

Then I went to Dover Street Market, which my stylish cousin in Manhattan had told me about.

“Oh! I love a market!” I told her, thinking again of the Marché des Enfants Rouges.

To which she said, “It’s fashion, not food.”

I almost resisted. But then resistance evaporated like pulled apart gossamer.

I didn’t feel like resisting.

I felt like embracing.

Even though if you’ve met me, you know I’m about as fashionable as an Old Navy clearance rack.

Dover Street Market is a pop up fashion/art hybrid where you can buy something if your bank account is a lot fuller than mine and they tailor it to you and then I presume you climb into your Maserati to drive to your pool filled with Champagne.

I loved everything about it.

Partly because I was like, I’m doing the most Parisian thing possible, something I never thought I’d do.

And partly because I discovered, to my surprise, that fashion is art. And therefore, like any art form, captures the imagination and inspires. I decided to start watching Project Runway. Consider it part of my perennially-years-behind charm.

As I sipped my final Kir Royale, watching kids run home from school, some shepherded by harried parents, some tumbling over each other, I looked for anxiety. I searched my gut.

Nothing.

I thought of the flight the next day. Did I know where to drop my bag, where to show my passport? What if my cab didn’t come?

I waited for the customary twist of my stomach. Not a twinge. I shrugged and took another sip.

I’d figure it out.

I blinked.

Who was this marvelous creature?

I chuckled at myself and fished the last olive from the bowl.

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