Outside my window, multiple chimneys appearing in every direction punctuate the grey Parisian sky. Maybe it’s because of images I’d seen in coffee table books about ‘The Lost Generation’ of Hemingway’s day, but as I float in the deep, warm water of a claw-foot bathtub admiring this classic view, I feel as if I’ve been here before. Alone in my friend’s apartment on Rue Pergolese, I’m awakened from my reverie as the phone rings.

“Why are you still there?”

“I am nervous leaving. I don’t even know how to order food.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, just say café crème and deux croissant.”

I am 24 years old. It is my first trip to Europe.

After being prodded out the door, I wander the streets of this glorious city on a diet of café crème and croissant. By days end, albeit a little jittery from all the coffee, I am madly in love with Paris.

Part of the thrill of being there, I think, came from the fact that I was alone, able to discover its beauty at my own pace. I usually agree that, as a foreigner, having a friend who knows their way around is the best way to find your way in a strange city.

But not in Paris.

Four years later, I went to Paris on my honeymoon, and for years after we visited the city often, with and without our children. It was always grand and sometimes chaotic with children in tow, but it was never the same as that first magical time. It saddened me to think maybe I was maybe living a French version of the famous Samuel Johnson quote, “When you tire of London you tire of life.”

I am happy to report that I am tired of neither life nor Paris.

Recently, my husband went to Ireland for a wedding and asked if I would meet him in Dublin. A Parisian bolt of lighting hit me and I suggested that we meet in Paris instead. We left on the same day but to different countries. A giddy sense of exploration came back to me as I buckled into my window seat. By the time I landed at Charles de Gaulle, with my fractured French and renewed sense of discovery, the 24-year-old woman in the claw foot tub was born again.

Once in the city I found that not having someone to cross-reference with on Metro directions or menu deciphering put me in touch with my slightly bewildered but excited younger self. I also did not have to worry about someone else’s schedule or taste. It was totally self indulgent and divine.

There is a guilty pleasure being alone in a city that must have been created for women.

Standing on Pont Neuf overlooking the Seine I remember thinking I agreed with what a friend had said: “In Paris I always feel beautiful.”

(Photos by Dore Hammond.)