Two weeks in London wasn’t nearly enough to feel like I’d experienced the whole city, but it had provided enough to scratch the itch of understanding my new home. George had bid me farewell on a Friday morning for my quick flight over to Paris to experience my family’s ancestral home; an obvious first choice for my travels!
I landed at Orly after a cheap flight on a low-cost airline that hadn’t even given us water, before taking an uber into the city. George apparently knew someone in the center of Paris who was away for the weekend, so she let me use her flat in the Latin quarter, right on the Siene. From the moment I got into Paris, it felt like home.
While bigger, more touristy, and maybe a bit dirtier, feeling a French culture and hearing my second language everywhere truly brought me back to Quebec.
The streets by my flat were narrow and cobbled, with little boutiques that eventually gave way to endless, bright bakeries filled with Parisians smoking cigarettes. I popped into the first patisserie I could find, realizing quickly that it was a bit too trendy to be aimed at locals, but I figured even the luxury tourist traps here were probably better than anything back in Canada.
“Yes?” An older woman said in a barely understandable French accent, already seeming annoyed by who she assumed was an American or some other English-speaking kid about to annoyingly order.
I worked up my best smile, showing off my bright teeth and even flipping my parted hair around a bit. “Bonjour, Madame! Je voudrais cinq macarons, s'il vous plaît!”
She immediately recoiled in shock, then smiled back at me warmly, appreciating how natural French was for me. All growing up, my parents had insisted on fluency, as was typical in my small suburban town outside of Quebec City. They constantly warned me that most corporate jobs in our province held it against potential hires if they weren’t bilingual (a subtle reminder from them that they expected me to stay close to home later on).
By the time I realized I was gay, around age 11, I started to realize that it’d be easier to break the news to them if I excelled in other areas, so I’d tripled down on my French, to the point that I could pass uni-level fluency exams by age 14. In fact, I used one stellar exam and the amazing mood it put my parents in to reveal my big secret; a good plan apparently, since they barely registered it and focused instead on celebrating my linguistic accomplishments. I was lucky and it wasn’t lost on me that my confidence likely stemmed from how supportive they’d been ever since.
“Enjoy!” She responded in English, less bothered knowing she could have used her native tongue if she’d have preferred. Alongside a small cardboard container filled with five macarons, she handed me a warm croissant coated in a layer of butter that glistened from the light fixtures overhead.
I found a bench right along the Seine and bit down, feeling the crunch and layers of perfect pastry bringing me back to life. Bridges dotted down in both directions, linking the two sides of the city everywhere except one small island. There, I saw Notre-Dame’s spires peeking out. Then I turned to the macarons, one by one, each shell crisp and giving way to that soft, explosive filling. The pistachio was nutty and sweet, the salted caramel hit with a perfect saltiness, and the lemon was tart, reminding me of spring. I was ready for sugar, carbs, and more sugar this weekend; my body be damned.
I couldn’t fathom that I was traveling alone in Paris, France. Twenty years old, no one to answer to, and an entire city at my fingertips. It was scary, exciting, and challenging, all in one. The river lapped gently against the stone embankment, and I watched a couple a little ways down, wrapped in scarves, arms linked, and laughing at something. They looked so effortlessly romantic, and for a second I wondered: do I want that? A boyfriend to share croissants with and kiss by these bridges?
I tried to picture being in the city of lights with a boyfriend who loved me. Hell, I pictured George and what that might be like; being swept off my feet, literally, by his big arms. But then I thought about the commitment and shared responsibility. I wasn’t ready for them. I didn’t need or want strings, and loneliness wasn’t something I worried about. I was in Europe this summer for fun, not to find some foreign future husband...but would I sign up for some international dick? Absolutely.
I’d had some experience; 12 guys to be exact, if we were counting the ones I’d had full anal sex with. Andres was been the latest, but I’d had two in particular in a rotation freshman year, both of whom were comfortable, as I was, with keeping a friends with benefits thing going to blow off steam. It’d become frequent enough that while it was 12 different guys, it was probably well over three or four hundred times that I’d had someone inside what George had called the ‘most adorable butt’; thankfully biology was in my favor because somehow it apparently retained its tight features even after near daily invasions in uni. I finished the last macaron, dark chocolate melting on my tongue, and stood to cross the river.
I wandered first toward the Louvre, the massive glass pyramid glowing faintly even in the daylight, its edges sharp against the classical stone of the palace wings. The courtyard was alive despite the February chill; tourists bundled in coats snapping photos, locals cutting through on bikes, and street artists sketching quick portraits for a few euros. I circled the outside slowly and took iin the sheer scale of it. The building felt endless, wings stretching left and right like arms ready to embrace the whole city. I imagined the art inside; paintings and sculptures I’ve only seen in textbooks, and promised myself I had to find time to see them in the future. But for now it was enough just to stand here and feel alive knowing I was in a place that I finally knew to actually be real.
From there I drifted along the riverbank toward Notre-Dame. The cathedral rose up like it’d come through a time machine from the past. The square in front was dotted with couples; some young and giggling, sharing earbuds; others older and walking slowly while holdings hands. Paris, even in the winter, didn’t feel cold; it was intimate, like the city forced everyone’s hearts to glow just a bit brighter. The romance of it all settled over me and tugged at something in my chest, but I shook it off with a light smile. I wasn’t here to chase that; I wanted the feeling of being completely and fantastically free.
By the time I climbed the hill toward Sacré-Cœur it was fully dark, the basilica glowing against the night sky. Montmartre buzzed around me and I stumbled into a bar I’d seen on social media, a little place tucked up near the square with wooden tables spilling out onto the pavement and lights strung overhead. It was already after ten when I push inside, and I was immediately hit with that ‘movie’ feeling again as a small jazz band played in the corner and the smell of wine and cigarette smoke invaded my nostrils.
I grabbed a spot at the bar by myself and ordered a four euro house red wine from the bartender, again in French, and settled in. Locals chatted around me in rapid French and for a minute I felt perfectly content in my own company.
That’s when someone else must’ve thought I looked lonely. He slid onto the barstool next to me without asking, looking to be a bit older but about my height. He had light stubble framing a face straight out of the early 20th century French films that my mom had showed me growing up, with brown tousled hair, big plastic black glasses, and a wool coat over a sweater. He smiled at me, whimsically, and immediately introduced himself.
“You are here alone?” He said in a thick French accent, just like the woman in the bakery earlier. “Sitting here with only the wine for company? Paris does not allow such things.”
I blinked, being charmed immediately. He was nothing like the guys I usually ended up chatting with. He was older, more mature, and maybe a bit nerdy, in the cutest way.
“I’m alone but I’m not lonely,” I said, leaning forward on my elbows, without trying too hard to seem cool. “Just soaking in Paris. First night here. I’m Bennett.”
“Sebastian,” he replied, offering a hand that was rough but steady when I shook it. “But everyone calls me Seb. You are Canadian, non? I hear it in the way you say your own name.”
“I am. French-Canadian. We can speak French, if you prefer? I’m fluent.” I said proudly
“I believe you, Bennett.” He said, clearly unimpressed and thinking I was trying to show off. “We may speak English.”
I blushed a bit and watched him pull a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, lighting it up and offering me one, which I gracefully turned down. We spoke off and on, dancing around whether we were now hanging out or instead simply existing in each other’s company. Over the course of an hour, I slowly learned more about him.
“I finished a graduate program near Aix-en-Provence,” he said with a gorgeous flare, “Literature. Not very useful but I love poetry, and what the heart wants, it should have.”
He sounded so romantic, just like the city he inhabited.
“What is it like? This is my first time in France.” I was fascinated to learn about every region of the vast continent.
“Lovely. Especially in spring, with lavender fields. Many French painters have spent time in Provence with dry rosé, painting the landscape.”
“How long have you been in Paris?” I asked him.
“Six months. But all frenchman have spent time in Paris.” I raise dry eyebrow at him. “We are not always the most fond of our capital. But it is the heartbeat. She is chaos and complex, but she is romantic and will break your heart.”
I truly couldn’t keep up with everything he was even saying, lost in the way he spoke. I laughed along, glued to his every word and syllable, sipping my wine and watching him toy with his glasses every twenty or thirty seconds, as if they needed an adjustment. He was cheesy in how he spoke about most things; leaning on language that people rarely spoke out loud, but it fit his vibe and it worked its charm on me little by little.
He asked about my studies abroad, and I told him about London. Sebastian made me feel like every word mattered, his head tilted and brown eyes bright behind the lenses.
“You travel alone,” he said at one point, “and yet you carry the world with you. I can see it in your face. The excitement, the hunger. Most people come to Paris looking for love or the Mona Lisa. You look like you are looking to expand your soul.”
“Maybe,” I said, shrugging with a grin. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead or in those terms, but he wasn’t wrong. I took it as a compliment. “Or maybe I’m just here for the macarons and the views. Though the couples everywhere are making me think twice about love. You ever get tired of it?”
Seb laughed. “No, my friend. I may tease those who come looking for love, but I would never grow tired of it. Love is the greatest art. But it is not for everyone, and that is beautiful too.” He took one last drag of his cigarette before dabbing it out and putting it into an ashtray. “I talk too much. That is my curse. You are young and I am now twenty-six and bothering you!”
“Hey,” I said, voice confident and charming, flashing him my best smile. “No way. This has been fun. Way more interesting than sitting here alone, even if I wasn’t lonely. Can we hang out again tomorrow? I’ve got nothing planned except wandering, and you seem like the perfect guide!”
Seb paused, adjusting his glasses with a thoughtful finger. His expression shifted, becoming a bit hesitant. “Ah, Bennet. You are kind, but I’m afraid I may be too boring for you, I think. You should go out to a club and meet other uni students.”
I shook my head, not letting him off that easy. “I don’t care about the age thing or whatever. And boring? You’re the opposite of boring. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of chances to go out partying this semester. I feel like this was the universe pairing us up…you’re the one who talked about romance and poetry, right? I want to hang out. Seriously. Please?”
He studied me for a long minute, then that whimsical smile crept back in, like he was conceding to fate. “Okay,” he said at last. “Okay, you win. I have plans tomorrow afternoon but meet me by the Louvre at sunset. We will see where Paris brings us.”
I was doing it! I was making friends in new places! All on my own!
Seb stood and gave me one last look, half amused and half intrigued. He stood, put his coat back on, and gave me one last look. “Until tomorrow, mon ami.”
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