At the very chic age of sixteen, I ventured to Paris for the first time. About five weeks before the trip, a sweet blonde kid from one of my classes asked me out on my first-ever first date. Though he was a perfect gentleman and even bought me my favorite cookie dough ice cream, I made sure to break it off with him pretty quickly; after all, I couldn’t possibly have enough time to daydream about both him (an American) and Paris - so I chose Paris.  

With a glimmer in his eyes, my father often recalls our family vacation by describing my elated expression when I first saw the Eiffel Tower. Mind you, we were still flying sky-high above the clouds at this point in his story, but that little glimpse was enough to send me into overdrive; after all, I’d been heavily romanticizing Paris for the majority of my life. I blame movies, Pinterest boards, and my vivid imagination, as part of me fully expected to drop into the sensual life of a French cinema character when I landed (spoiler: I did not). 

Clad in Hollister apparel and on a diet of croissants*, I roamed the city for six days with my family, sometimes in a sophisticated strut and other times in a sort of boundless float. More often than not, I’d “accidentally” stray from our group, mesmerized by fascinating fabric in a window or a picturesque alley with just the right amount of charm.  When I think of these moments through Paris, the omnipresence of time weighs on me in black and white. Once you’re in, Paris seduces your hours and expectations; relinquishing control is the only way through.

The city’s first seduction happened via the Musée d’Orsay clock, which is a relic from when the museum was used as a railway station in the 1900s. Built for travel to southwest France, the clock is heavy, no longer ticking, but undoubtedly kept me alert and in line throughout the space. While my sister and I stood quietly in a corner of the museum waiting for our family to catch up, a stylish woman sauntered by us in pointy crocodile leather-heeled boots. As her feathered hair and abstract patterned scarf came closer into view, the woman looked me dead in the eye, muttered some French profanities, and then proceeded to raise her finger and flip me off. 

Right now you’re either thinking ‘How dare that woman’ or more likely ‘Okay seriously how badly behaved were you in that museum.’ Rest assured, neither my sister nor I had disrupted the museum ecosystem that day, as so many oblivious tourists often do, so there really was no explanation. Honestly, it was one of the best moments of my life; I stood not in offence but in awe. That French Flip was my new blueprint for what it could look like to be a woman: unafraid, confident, and bold. Logic or reason need not apply at that moment; my sister and I giggled to ourselves, we were characters in Paris’ story.   

Impressionist paintings, namely Monet’s Water Lilies, were responsible for the second seduction at the Musée de l’Orangerie, which is fittingly located on the west corner of the floral Tuileries Garden. Stepping into the space, my first instinct was to photograph the astoundingly beautiful art. By the time a gallery worker made clear that was not an option, I’d anyways been drawn into a trance. The curved shape of the walls encompassed me, where oil and color shaded water lilies on their likewise curved canvas. This ethereal moment drew me to stillness, slowing my impulses to move quickly through the museum. I didn’t want to leave and I couldn’t; the lilies bounded my time.

The third seduction happened outside the streets of the Louvre Museum with commuters whirling and whizzing by. While studying the charming yet sturdy architecture around me, my pace slowed to allow my mind to soak in the surroundings, and suddenly I found myself separated from my family; an independent explorer in a moment of Parisian-influenced inhibition. The energy of my sudden solitude was intoxicating: a slight breeze in any direction meant endless potential of what could happen next. Coming to my senses, I not too quickly crossed the street to catch up with my family but managed to turn my head for one final photo of the busy block behind me. At the same moment, a bicyclist pedalled casually across the way, framing the buildings perfectly; a gift and a kismet moment from Paris.

Through alertness, subdued trance, and finally happenstance, Paris seduced my time as a film to its audience. It didn’t matter if I’d planned my (in retrospect, horrible) outfits, experiences, or ‘love life’ around my vacation. While so many of us wait for our lives to start, risk-averse due to fear of the unknown, there are places like Paris that laugh at our perceived sense of control and indulge us in a more precious way of living: unbound in the present moment. So, go to Paris. The clock is ticking anyway.

*Shoutout to me for not mentioning the croissants until the third paragraph.