PARISIAN ESCAPE ARTIST
Heartbroken in the City of Love
After barely escaping Marrakech amid looming border closures due to COVID, I pressed on, continuing my journey.
In search of what, exactly?
In search of what I felt I had lost.
As I shared in my last blog post, Leap to Marrakech, this trip had already been heavy with challenges. Paris was the second leg of my journey, and while I had visited the city before, this time felt different. I was navigating it alone. No longer did I have someone to share the experience with bounce things off of or even laugh while people-watching no I was alone in the “ CITY OF LOVE ”. Yet, I’d made it this far, and I wasn’t giving up. Something happens to you when you are experiencing the separation of someone you’ve known since the age of 13 it’s hard to explain but as my journey continued I began to find out more and more of what that feeling was. Landing at CDG, I was met with the familiar hum of French airport life. No offense to Parisians, but you get no love if you don’t speak French. It’s almost mandatory if you need help. I managed to catch the RoissyBus, which took about 45 minutes to the (Opéra) bus stop. As we approached the city, the gold-capped buildings stood as striking reminders of Paris’ rich—and complex—history.
The streets were bustling as usual, and, as fate would have it, I once again found myself here in the dead of winter. It was freezing, though not as cold as the chill entering my soul.
(More on that later.)
When I finally reached my Airbnb, the flat felt like stepping into another time. Without central heating like back home, the antique radiator hummed to life, its warmth creeping through the chilly space. Exhausted from the madness of travel and without much appetite, I opted for a shower and was scrolling Netflix and found one of my favorite shows The Office. That show never fails to make me smile, and in that moment, it was exactly what I needed.
Lost in the 4th arrondissement
The next morning—or rather, afternoon—I somehow found the energy to get out of bed. With only three days in Paris before heading to Berlin, I knew I had to make the best of it , even though the lingering pain I’d slept off was slowly creeping back. Hunger eventually outweighed my fatigue, so I threw on some clothes and hit the streets.
For those who’ve never been to Paris (especially Americans), brunch here isn’t the indulgent feast we’re used to in the South. There’s no table overflowing with Pancakes, Bacon, grits, biskets, waffles, eggs, and everything else to put you back to sleep. Instead, mornings are light—espresso, coffee, Croissant & baguettes. But I needed something more substantial, and without much brainpower to decide, I let the Golden Arches be my savior. Funny enough, I never touch McDonald’s in the States, but when traveling, it becomes my go-to when I’m too drained to think. Croissants and coffee would have to wait. (Later that day “cute blog photo”) As the day wore on, the feelings I’d tried to leave behind resurfaced. I found myself needing to stop and sit, overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion and weakness I couldn’t quite explain. At the time, I didn’t realize it was the start of a deep depression. Basic tasks drained me, leaving me completely spent. Still, I pushed myself to make the most of being in Paris. Wandering the streets alone, I let myself get lost in the experience, soaking up the magic of traveling abroad despite the weight I carried. In those quiet moments, I found a strange sense of solace amidst the chaos. This was a feeling and space that would become a part of my new identity. When you go through a series of multiple Deaths a marriage that has been shattered into pieces and nonstop attacks that are aimed at your integrity the fibers of who you are as a person everything else can warp you change is inevitable.
Nuit des Musées
As my time in Paris wound down, I made it a priority to visit the galleries—a vital part of my artistic process. Exploring these spaces solo gave me the freedom to connect with the works on a deeper level, taking in the emotions and energy they conveyed without distraction.
I stumbled upon The Centre Pompidou, an architectural marvel with an exterior that looked like a giant slide in front of the building. Inside, I uncovered inspiring works by artists like Bernard Rancillac, Gary Hume, and Yves Klein. Check out the photos below to see some of my favorite discoveries!
“Notre Dame’s Flames: A Storm Cloud of Pain”
As my time in Paris came to an end, the world outside seemed to echo the chaos within. COVID was spreading uncontrollably, with numbers climbing every hour. Notre Dame, once a beacon of strength, had been reduced to ashes just before my arrival—a haunting reminder of how quickly everything can burn. It felt as though the city itself wore the weight of my unraveling, its skies heavy with unspoken sadness.
Drip or Fashion, something I had always clung to as expression, didn’t even cross my mind. For those who know me, that’s unheard of. But when you’re trapped in a storm cloud of pain, I didn’t care about designer brands. Shopping felt hollow, a mere shadow of the person I once was. Each step I took seemed to pull me deeper into the storm, and I could feel the rain beginning to fall.
Now, I braced myself for Berlin—a city I had never been to. The trip was far from over, and with my brother joining me later in Prague, there was still something to hold onto. But as I left Paris, it felt less like moving forward and more like walking headfirst into a tempest I wasn’t sure I could weather.
