As much as I fancy myself a contrarian—for a 40-year-old mother of two and recent-ish city expat to suburbia—like many basic women, I dream of Paris. The pull was perhaps never more magnetic than in recent years, when the pandemic grounded me with my two hellions—first, hyper-locally in a New York apartment, and then from traveling anywhere at all. It had been 10 years since my first and only long weekend in the City of Light, for my 30th birthday, when I’d ticked off all the touristy boxes—the Seine boat cruise, the shadow of the clock at Musee d'Orsay, dinner with my then-newly-married husband over the red-checked tablecloths at La Fontaine de Mars—but we ran out of time before we could do what I really wanted to do: wander around the Marais, languish at cafés, poke around for special vintage things and generally pretend to be Parisian.
Live Style
The Best Thing I Did This Year?
As much as I fancy myself a contrarian—for a 40-year-old mother of two and recent-ish city expat to suburbia—like many basic women, I dream of Paris
