Parisian Reflections

We just returned from a 10-day vacation in Europe, and I want to put my experience into words—first, to solidify the memories for my future self, and second, to paint a picture for other curious readers.

We landed in Paris via AirFrance after a pleasant flight. They gave the kids little toys and snack boxes—cute and elegantly designed. I picked up a few charming beginner phrases like Bon appétit and Bonjour.

At the airport, taxi drivers swarmed us, eager to offer a ride. My husband wisely turned down a cab and ordered an Uber for half the price. We stayed in a two-bedroom flat called Edgar Suites. Watching Parisians pass by on the street—biking effortlessly while chatting on their phones—was a simple delight.

I found myself missing the rhythm of uptown life from my childhood. Our flat was on 100. Yıl Boulevard, a bustling street like Antalya’s Broad Street. From our balcony, the cars buzzed like mosquitoes. Only at night, when traffic eased, could you hear the soft murmur of people walking and talking below. Shops and markets lined the ground floor, and I remembered stories of lowering baskets from windows to collect groceries—a charming relic of urban life.

The Paris street where we stayed had a similar vibe, but with stricter aesthetics: buildings rarely taller than five stories, all in white or beige, with narrow French balconies—more decorative than functional, but perfect for the occasional smoker.

I couldn’t help but notice: Parisians are taller, slimmer, and more stylish than I’m used to seeing. I looked around, searching for someone with a big belly—rare. Every corner seemed to host a boulangerie-pâtisserie, overflowing with croissants and pastries. People lingered outside, drinking, smoking, talking. There were more smokers than I expected—one of the few unhealthy habits that linger here.

Of course, we tried the famous croissants—buttery, flaky, and rich. Delicious, yes. But it made me wonder how Parisians indulge in such foods and still remain so trim.

We explored the nearby shops and found a Turkish kebab place called Melodie. The Turkish server, born and raised in Paris, was friendly—but oddly discontent with Paris life. My daughter fell asleep at the restaurant table, so we headed back to our suite for the night.

The next day was our Eiffel Tower day. On the way, we passed the tunnel where Princess Diana’s tragic accident occurred. To reach the summit, we took two different elevators—one made my son dizzy for a while. From the top, the city spreads out beneath you in every direction. But you feel a strange disconnection—you’re on the Eiffel Tower, yet can’t see it.

For photos, the best shots come after you descend, with the tower standing tall behind you. There are so many beautiful viewpoints; it’s hard to go wrong.

The buildings themselves have a consistent beauty—graceful architecture, charming flower boxes, and the perfume of blooming bushes. That’s the level Paris operates on.

Later, we ate at a halal restaurant. I may have overindulged in sweets and ended up with a headache. On the way back, we stopped at Starbucks on a quiet passage off the Champs-Élysées. I looked around at the luxury shops and wondered: Who shops here? Who needs things that expensive?

I bought a sparkly Eiffel Tower scarf and a handful of gifts for friends. Back at the suite, I told my daughter, “Keep the window open—I want to hear the street.”

One night, battling jet lag, I watched two cars stop near the sidewalk. A woman stepped out of one—dressed in classic Parisian elegance. The woman in the other car looked more ordinary. They talked, exchanged a few words, and the elegant woman handed over what looked like six blue bills. A tiny mystery from the balcony.

Parisians weren’t just fit—they were dressed. A silky green skirt for errands. Perfectly tailored pants. Not once did I see a waistband out of place or anything peeking where it shouldn’t.

Of course, there were homeless people too—just like any city—but not in numbers that disrupted the city’s visual harmony.

The next day, we went to Le Jardin d’Acclimatation, a kid-friendly amusement park. Then came a boat tour along the Seine. The kids were tired of walking, and we were tired of carrying them.

Then came the Louvre. Home to the Mona Lisa. The museum is massive, more a palace than a building. Mona Lisa had her own queue and crowd. You get maybe three seconds to take a photo. I looked at the painting, then at my photos. Honestly? I wasn’t blown away. Other paintings were much larger and more visually dramatic. So what’s the hype? Maybe because it was stolen once. Maybe because of artistic techniques beyond my understanding. Still, a bucket-list item—checked off. If I had more time (and fewer kids to carry), I would’ve enjoyed it more.

We closed our Paris stay with more Turkish food and a rose-shaped ice cream cone from Amorino. The woman sculpted each petal by pressing slices of gelato onto a waffle cone. Of course, there was a line.

Then we boarded the Eurostar to London.

More on that soon.