When you go to Paris with a romantic partner, it’s implied that you’re going because it is romantic. I’ve been fortunate enough to go to Paris three other times in my life: once with my mother, once on a school trip, and once with a friend at the end of a month-long backpacking excursion. Before each of those trips, no one had oo-ed or awed whatsoever over my plans to go to Paris. But now, 31 yrs old and with a boyfriend, romance was all anyone wanted to talk about.
When people asked if E and I were going on a romantic getaway, I laughed and said, “No. It’s just a trip.” I wanted to point out that no one asked this when I went with boyfriends to Ireland, Iceland, or India. However, to point that out would also be to ignore the fact that, while those places are amazing, they are not as synonymous with love and romance as Paris is. When you think of Paris, you think of people securing a heart-shaped lock on the Pont des Arts and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes while the Eiffel Tower sparkles somewhere in the background. You think of honeymoons and marriage proposals. You think of expensive champagne and sex.
But this was not why E and I were going to Paris. When we brainstormed trip ideas, I’d suggested Morocco or Luxembourg, but the flights didn’t fit our work schedules. E had never been to France. He’d studied French in school and dreamt of one day moving from Brazil to France, but ended up in Portugal instead. When he suggested Paris, I said yes. The reasons seemed practical, not romantic.
Yet, as the trip approached, and more and more friends gushed over the location, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was this a romantic trip? And if so, what made it romantic? Were we supposed to split a bottle of expensive wine at the window seat of some fancy restaurant? Eat the same spaghetti strand ala Lady and the Tramp? Kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower? Romance has never been my forte. I dated one guy for seven years, and when he dumped me he cited my “emotional unavailability” and “I just never knew if you really liked me” as keys reasons for the break-up. Ever since, I’ve tried to be more obvious about my feelings with romantic partners, but where are the lines between sincerity, vulnerability, and plain self preservation?
While checking our bags through security, all I could think about was why hadn’t we chosen anywhere else in France? Normandy, Nice, Strasbourg. I liked E and didn’t want to screw things up. He’d been the one to suggest Paris, but what if it wasn’t just for practical reasons? Was he expecting champagne and romance while I was researching ghost tours and vegan restaurants?
We stayed in a small hotel near the Gard du Nord. We got a room on the top floor, overlooking the busy street. The room was small and cozy. The wall at the head of the bed was plastered in a black and white photo of the underbelly of the Eiffel Tower. It’s like having sex under the Eiffel Tower, I thought. Is that romantic?
We spent the first night searching for a place to eat and finally settled on an Indian restaurant in a nondescript alley. The next morning, we set out for Montmarte, winding our way through residential streets until we finally found the Sacre Coeur. From there, we walked some more, stopped for pastries, and took a train to one of my two favorite places in Paris: the Arc de Triomphe.
We walked around with pigeons at the Louvre, saw the burnt body of the Notre Dame, and waited in line to gaze at rosy stained glass inside the Sainte-Chapelle. We ate crepes, drank coffee, and made our way back to the hotel, where we fell into bed beneath the legs of the Eiffel Tower…and slept for nearly two and a half hours.
The next day followed this same pattern: walking, eating, walking some more, stopping to get coffee before my mood dipped, a nap at the hotel, and then out for dinner and a drink. At one point, we were so exhausted from wandering, that we debated simply ordering Uber Eats to the hotel. Then we learned of a vegan burger shop just down the street and we roused ourselves enough to make one last journey before bed.
Our third and last day was planned around the two things we’d each been most excited about when landing in Paris. For E, it was going up the Eiffel Tower. For me, eating Ethiopian food. These would be the pivotal romantic moments, I thought. These were the things we were most excited about; things that meant the most to each of us and were something we wanted to share with each other.
When we left the hotel, I felt the same way I used to before heading to school on Exam Day: excited, nervous, and a bit nauseous. I imagined myself like Rocky Balboa before his big fight: jumping side-to-side, shaking my arms, and flexing my muscles. This is it, I thought. This is what you have planned for and studied for. Now: it’s go time.
In just the few months that we’d been dating, I made sure to always say sweet things to E. I told him often that I liked him, and was emotive in the ways that that my seven-year ex had made me feel like I was incapable of (and therefore would fail in every future relationship because of it).
This was it: going to the top of the Eiffel frickin’ Tower. The ultimate Can You Be Romantic? Olympics.
We got to the tower earlier than expected, so we spent a few hours walking along the river and eating sandwiches at a café. We explored the park that stretches between the tower and historic École Militaire to the southeast. Families walked around us, also stalling before their allotted ticket entrance to the tower. Men holding oversized keychains dangling shiny trinkets passed us shouting, “Eiffel: one euro.” A few men had their goods spread out on picnic blankets. One man had to quickly pull his blanket out of the way from a police van that either didn’t notice him or didn’t care.
When it was our time to go up the tower, we spent very little time waiting in line. We were shuttled along with about forty other people into one large cable car, which took us to the first level of the tower (the one you can also walk to for a cheaper price). We stayed in the car and went up to the second level. From there, everyone disembarked and tried to push and snake their way to the second set of elevators, which would take you to the very top.
At the top of the tower, E and I looked out over all of Paris and its suburbs. We pointed at places we walked to over the previous days, and took obligatory selfies. We tried to see if we could locate the Ethiopian restaurant. The wind picked up and I could feel the ground beneath us move slightly. After making one full turn around both the open-air and indoor areas, we made the trek back to the ground.
Finished with the Eiffel Tower, we yet again found ourselves with hours to kill before a normal dinnertime. We chose a random nearby cafe and ordered rounds of Happy Hour drinks. Although we’ve known each other for nearly a year, we managed to find new topics to talk about ourselves, discuss past relationships, and plan a summer trip to Brazil*.
While we chatted, I again thought about whether this was romantic or not. The Eiffel Tower had been fun, but it hadn’t been brimming with romance and warm, fuzzy feelings. We’d kissed, but it was a normal kiss. I was sure I wouldn’t even journal about it later.
I thought about past trips with boyfriends and what, if anything, had made those romantic. There was the night in Iceland, drinking wine in an outdoor Jacuzzi while a green Aurora Borealis ball rolled across the sky. There were drinks inside a speakeasy in Charleston, where my date and I were humored by the fact that people kept thinking we were on our honeymoon, yet it was only our fourth date. And then there was a dinner on a rooftop overlooking Jaipur, killing time beside an empty hotel pool before a red eye flight.
The location of each of those moments had been romantic, but what really made them standout in my mind were the moments with each guy. With the Jacuzzi, it was the fact that it was the first moment my longterm bf had agreed to move to Asia with me (turns out that was a lie, but the nice in-the-moment feel still stands); in Charleston, it was the excitement of feeling a connection with someone after having my heart broken months previous (re: Jacuzzi man); and in Jaipur, it was the first relaxing moment after a whirlwind trip and the beginning of a new relationship.
E and I ordered one more round before heading to the Ethiopian restaurant. While I swirled the wine in my glass, E said he’d told his parents about me.
“Are they horrified I’m American?” I joked.
E’s smile reminded me of one of my students’ smile when they didn’t want to confess to plagiarizing a poem by Langston Hughes. “I don’t know if this will offend you,” he said.
“They think I own guns?”
He laughed. “They said, You never make it easy for us.”
It took me half a second to realize he meant the language barrier. My Portuguese skills were still that of an infant, and the progress was slow-going.
As we continued to talk about his family and what it would be like for me to travel to Brazil and meet them, I realized that this was the romantic moment of our Paris trip: drinking cheap happy hour beer and wine at a random café while we waited to stuff our face in injera, lentils, and wot. I’d never dated a guy who felt confident enough to say he’d told his family about me. I’d never even dated a guy who expressed an interest in me meeting his family (to be fair, with the longterm bf, we’d already known each other long enough that our families knew each other). E was the first boyfriend to be upfront about his feelings for me and that he saw a future together.
Months after the trip, it’s easy to see that the romance of the weekend wasn’t simply going to Paris. It wasn’t a kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower or eating pastries in Montmarte. The romance was E talking to me for two straight hours during both of our flights because I’m scared of flying. It was me researching vegan and vegetarian restaurants so that E would have meal options. It was E reaching his hand out to mine when we walked or me taking him to the Sainte-Chapelle because I wanted him to be wowed. It was spending a few days together and continuing to get to know each other. It was E kissing my cheek after I’d ranted and raved over being hangry.
If you go to Paris with your boyfriend, does it have to be romantic? Can it be just be a normal, everyday trip? What’s the difference between a normal trip and a romantic trip?
Obviously the answers to all of these depend on the person. Do I think the trip to Paris was romantic simply because it was romantic? No, I don’t. I think when you’re with the right person, a trip anywhere can be romantic.
*This trip has been postponed due to COVID-19.
