Paris, Summer 2025 – Day One: Montmartre and Solitude
It’s almost funny how I ended up in Paris this summer. The dates were May 23rd to 26th—just a few days, stolen from routine. I was in Germany for work, a trip that came with the unexpected luxury of a Schengen visa. Anyone who’s tried to get one during peak European summer knows the ordeal: long waits, endless documents, and no guarantees. My husband often says Europe is overrated, and that the visa process is made unnecessarily difficult—his annoyance was something I shared. But still, thanks to my work assignment, I had a one-year visa. This was my second time using it, and on my way back to the U.S., I decided to gift myself a few days in Paris.
Originally, my sister was meant to join me. That plan didn’t pan out. And so, I went alone.
I flew from Hamburg to Charles de Gaulle on a Friday morning. I didn’t know what to expect—maybe just to see the Eiffel Tower in real life. Everything else I’d heard about Paris came from films and fleeting conversations: the so-called “city of love,” the cinematic romance of men wooing women under the shimmer of street lamps, kisses stolen near the Seine, magic in the air. But I didn’t know if that would resonate with me. I just wanted to walk.
The airport surprised me—it had clearly been revamped, likely in preparation for the upcoming Olympic Games. Smooth lines, wide corridors, and sleek underground tunnels connected terminals like arteries. It was surprisingly well-organized, and I was amused by how modern it felt. I collected my luggage and made a spontaneous decision to take the metro into the city. It felt brave and practical. I had three days to wander on my own dime, and there was something grounding in understanding the layout of a new city through its subways.
Thanks to my husband’s tip, I downloaded the IDFM app and bought a 3-day pass directly using Apple Pay—no account required. I felt oddly proud of this small tech-savvy win. My hotel was in Bercy, in the 12th arrondissement. Not quite the center, but not far either. I stayed at the Ibis Styles Bercy, a modest but charming hotel with a metro station right across the street. I arrived early, around 8 or 9 AM, far too soon for check-in. I left my luggage in the hotel’s secure room and stepped out into Paris.
The Seine was my first companion. It flowed beside Bercy, steady and quiet. I walked through a nearby park, feeling the early summer breeze, snapping a few selfies in my solitude. The houses here had an old, stony charm—thick walls and aged textures that reminded me of my nani’s home in Chandni Chowk. There was something deeply comforting in that familiarity.
I remembered an app my sister-in-law Shagun had mentioned—LeWalk. I downloaded it and found a self-guided walking tour in Montmartre. So off I went, hopping on the metro once again, heading to the northern hills of Paris.
Montmartre.
A city within a city. Creative, romantic, chaotic in the best way. It felt like walking into a painting that was still in progress. The streets rose and fell in staircases and cobbled inclines, the buildings brushed with soft pinks and earthy whites. Bougainvillea spilled from balconies, and every corner held a secret—a whisper of the past.
I had lunch tucked into a stair-side café, one of those little gems that feel like they only exist for the people who stumble into them. I learned that Montmartre quite literally means “mountain of the martyr” and is perched on a hill, with views that stretch far across the city. With my walking tour app guiding me, I wandered the back streets, avoiding the crowds. I saw the grand church from its quiet side, nearly alone, as if Paris had saved that view just for me.
There was a tiny dog park with a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower—my first real glimpse. It appeared so unexpectedly, almost humbly, framed between two trees like a secret told softly.
I took a funicular trolley—yes, my metro pass covered it—up and down the hill, just to feel what it was like. I must have walked nearly 12,000 steps that day, each one more meaningful because I had nowhere to be but here.
The streets buzzed with creativity. Artists lined the square, painting their versions of Paris. One only used browns and whites; another focused solely on flowers. Their styles were as unique as fingerprints. I bought a scarf there—a soft one with a print reminiscent of Van Gogh. I almost bought a painting too. Part of me still regrets not doing so.
Music floated from corners. A woman sang. Children danced. And no one stared.
I felt something rare there. The absence of judgment. The shopkeepers didn’t push me to buy, nor did they seem disappointed if I walked away. They displayed their art and let you choose your connection. I felt respected as a visitor. Nothing felt like a trap.
I did miss my husband in moments—sharing meals, pointing out oddities, laughing over nothing. But there was also a lightness in being alone. I didn’t have to wonder what someone else wanted to eat or see. I moved with only my own rhythm.
I found a pair of sunglasses I liked. A pink beret, too—classic and whimsical. I video-called my parents from the shop to discuss colors. That felt like a moment of home.
By evening, I returned to Bercy. I was tired but content. I grabbed a small meal at a nearby restaurant. The sweets dominated the menu, but I didn’t indulge much. I’m not a dessert person unless I’m with others. Maybe if I’d been with friends, I’d have shared bites of everything.
That night, I slept deeply.
Montmartre had shown me something profound—not just beauty, but ease. Art wasn’t curated or staged. It was everywhere. On the walls, in the faces of the people, in the music, in the freedom. It didn’t try to prove itself.
Paris hadn’t wooed me with grandeur. It had whispered instead.
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