A Parisian Honeymoon
Three months before my wedding, I didn’t have a honeymoon plan. I know some people like to be spontaneous or ask their future partner to be in charge, but if I asked my finance to plan our honeymoon we’d end up on a Civil War battlefield. While lamenting my lack of travel plans — because, you know, I guess the wedding was the priority — a coworker happened to be browsing Scott’s Cheap Flights and came across the ideal honeymoon destination. I jumped at the suggestion and twenty seconds later, I had two tickets booked for Paris at Christmastime.
Fast forward to December 2018 and my grandfather pulled me aside during our wedding reception to ask if I was really going to Paris during the riots. In fact, multiple people expressed their concerns that we were traveling to what my small midwestern hometown now considered a war zone. In reality, Paris was going through a mostly peaceful demonstration period known as the yellow vest movement (in reaction to French economic policies). My new husband and I were aware but indifferent — nothing was going to compromise our romantic getaway. In fact, the whole thing was rather French.
We arrived in a Parisian neighborhood at 5:00am, bleary and weary. When we struggled to find the entrance to our Airbnb, we laughed it off. As we lugged our suitcases up seven flights of stairs to the tiny attic apartment, our laughs turned into hesitant, sweaty smiles. As we entered the dank room whose photos did not match the very misleading posting, the smile gave way to nervous glances. We spent our first morning in Paris buying cheap wine glasses and a new shower curtain because of the mold infestation.
Next, it rained. It rained nearly every day. For a city that was supposed to be alive with twinkle lights and soft falling snow, it was really dreary. All our outdoor photos feature umbrellas blocking the scenery, floppy rain hoods, and soaked sneakers.
Then, the yellow vests actually did disrupt our plans. One night, we saw rioters break into a McDonald’s and set a car on fire. In anticipation of a Saturday rally that could turn violent, the city shut down. The museums and subways closed. Our concert was canceled. Many restaurants boarded up. The Champs-Elysees was blocked off. If this sounds like the least romantic honeymoon of all time, bear with me.
We didn’t get to go to our concert. Instead, we bought a loaf of fresh bread and local cheese from a corner stand and had a picnic in our apartment. We made it a goal to eat five different varieties of crepes per day. We walked miles and miles of the city that most tourists don’t get to see because of their packed agendas. We sat at a cafe for hours, unrushed, ordering a few bottles of wine and appetizers whose names we butchered. We went to the open-air Christmas market — one of the few places still open — every single night and bought local artisan goods instead of cheap souvenirs. We traded the big museum for the local cemetery. We didn’t have a fancy dinner at the Michelin star restaurant but frequented at least seven different boulangeries. On our last day, we stood at the front of the Effiel Tower taking in the city that threw us for a loop, already wistful for our weird honeymoon that today makes a great story. My husband later said he wouldn’t change one thing.
But next time we go to Paris, we are getting a hotel.
