Paris and the Single Girl

6 February 2006 by Lisa Anselmo    2310  
Story and photographs by Lisa Anselmo So it’s February and that means Valentine’s Day, the holiday designed to make perfectly fabulous single gals feel like so much mutton. So, what are you going to do on this day of l’amour, curl up on the couch with a DVD of Sex and the City? C’mon my little Carrie Bradshaws, get those gorgeous butts to Paris! Already there? Get out and get walking—there is romance around every corner, on every rue and in every café. You don’t need to be in a couple to have a romantic time in Paris, not when you can have a love affair with the city! “Paris: Too real and too beautiful. It reaches in and opens you wide and you stay that way.” —An American in Paris Romance and love are states of mind, and Paris makes it easy to get in the mood. Even in February, it seduces you with its impossible beauty, its endless rows of elegant white facades, its perfectly manicured trees, its sexy sparkling tower. How could you not fall in love with its little corner bistro, menu painted on the window in gold leaf, serving up delicacies on tiny, marble-topped tables by black-vested waiters? Who wouldn’t swoon at the early-morning vista of the still-sleeping city from the heights of Sacré Coeur? Honey, if that ain’t romantic, I don’t know what. (You lucky gals already residing in the Rue de Quelque Chose need to take advantage of what you’ve got—do something special and have tea at the Crillon.) For the rest of you who’ve never been to Paris but always wanted to go, what could be more romantic than fulfilling that desire? There are plenty of last-minute deals to be had, especially in February. Imagine… …a room in a sweet little hotel in the Latin Quarter—room 31 in the Hotel St. Jacques, with views of the Pantheon and Notre Dame. Or maybe you found a deal online for grander accomodations at Le Meurice across from the Tuileries in the glamorous 1st arrondissement. You booked a room for two so you wouldn’t end up in a tiny corner with alley views. Smart girl. It’s around 8:30 AM (who could sleep?). You step out (in your most stylish coat) into the crisp morning air and stop at a tiny boulangerie for a croissant to walk with. It’s nothing like the soft, greasy things back home. This is light and moist inside, with a crispy, delicate outer layer that crumbles into little flakes. “The real thing,” you murmur to yourself as you absent-mindedly brush the flakes from your coat. Looking up, you’re stunned by the row of buildings across the street, hot with orange morning light, against the steely blue clouds that still hang low on the horizon from last night’s rain. “This is why painters paint Paris,” you think. Instantly, you’re super-charged—heart pounding, limbs tingling. You haven’t felt like this since, well, since you were in love. You’re giddy and you don’t know what to do first, there’s so much you want to see—Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, Place des Vosges, Montmartre, the Latin Quarter—but soon you’ll discover that it’s enough just to be anywhere in Paris. You take your time and let yourself get “lost” again and again through narrow streets, down quiet little passages no bigger than alleys, suddenly ending up at bustling food markets and busy shopping avenues. Cobblestone streets, somber old churches, darling storefronts court you with their picture-postcard perfection. Your turn left instead of right, zig rather than zag and find yourself on a street no more than a few buildings long. There’s a tiny hotel on the corner with an inviting bistro. You make note of the name: Hôtel les Degrés de Notre Dame in the Rue des Grand Degrés. The hotel is adorable and the bistro of the same name offers an interesting mix of French and Moroccan fare within its walls (which are smothered in old paintings and photographs). “It’s like something out of an impressionist painting,” you think as you peer into the window. The waitress waves you in with a smile and since it’s nearly lunchtime (and looking like rain) you decide to go in. She sits you at a little table by the lace-curtained window and points to a blackboard that boasts a prix fixe menu of only 12 euro (including a glass of wine!). For your very first French meal you choose…Moroccan. Why not? The chicken tagine at the neighboring table looks so good. Your order comes to you in a parade of dishes: three small bowls with raisins in one, caramelized onions in another and chick peas in the third; a terrine of chicken broth; a small platter with a mound of fluffy couscous; a tagine of chicken and merguez (spicy Moroccan sausage). “Yipes! It’s enough for two,” you say out loud. Your comment reminds you that you are alone and you get a twinge of melancholy. But just as you are about to sink, a stylish young woman in a hot pick raincoat whizzes across the tiny square past your window, reminding you that you are fabulous and in Paris! You take your time with your huge lunch and pen this moment into your journal. Your feet find the street again, and now it is drizzling but wonderfully mild for this time of year. You grab your little umbrella from your Longchamps bag (you’re so elegant!) and walk along the Seine past Notre Dame’s surreal flying buttresses, past the book and poster vendors, and over the Pont Neuf. The tiny streets have widened now, impressive white-faced buildings sweep upward, and all at once Paris is transformed from charming to glamorous: The Louvre, the Tuileries. The rows and rows of elegant colonnades on the Rue de Rivoli are a dashing rival to your left bank love. The Opéra Garnier and Galleries Lafayette call to you, but you promise them a rendezvous on another day. (You have a date…
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By Lisa Anselmo