I went to Paris a few weeks ago. After years of solo travel, I declared this to be my final solo trip for the foreseeable future. That’s also what I said about my solo week in Miami but I needed one more romantic getaway with myself, mostly to enjoy Paris and, partially, to hold a funeral for old loneliness. 

In a world of social media, there are so many misconceptions of solo travel. It all looks like a supercut of picturesque freedom. I used to share my solo trips and get messages like “You’re so brave for traveling solo!” or “Good for you! Solo trips teach you so much about yourself.” I felt brave when I flew to Australia alone. I learned plenty about myself one night in London in a dodgy part with a dead cell phone. This particular trip was not at all about “bravery” or learning about myself. I like to think myself and I know each other pretty well by now, without dropping a cute 2K on a long flight, change of scenery and ten pounds in croissants. 

This trip to Paris was dreamlike. Not because I always dreamt of a prime-time trip to Paris but because I took a redeye internationally, fell asleep in one city, woke up in another and my jet lag felt like six days of bi-liguinal sleepwalking. 

I don’t need to tell you it was magnificent, of course it was and I’m already picturing myself back at my favorite little breakfast spot, Cafe Creme. The people of Paris are beautiful, unsurprisingly. But I don’t mean in a superficial way. There’s poetry literally scribbled all over the cobblestones, making the morning walk to get coffee feel like a slow waltz through a museum. It’s all over the walkways, you can’t help but walk a little slower, in case there’s a line or two for you to carry with you. The mundane is the most charming: the way the bistros are all packed by 9am with locals drinking cappuccinos and taking their sweet time to start the day, the well-behaved dogs that walk off leash behind their person, the fashion that women throw on to ride a bike across town, the elegance of smoking in public places and the unwavering commitment to cigarettes, even in the rain. I almost tried one but I could hear my mum reminding me I’d get a stomach ache. 

If you wake up early enough, you’ll see all of France on their dreamy balconies enjoying their first smoke of the day. The only thing missing is music, but I suppose you have to go to Italy for that sort of morning vibe. 

I refused to make decisions in Paris, I wanted to be told where to go, what to eat and drink. I was a regular at my little corner bistro. The waiter called me Madame du Cheesecake, that was his polite way of calling me an obvious New Yorker (the all black ensemble with leather jacket in 75 degree weather was a dead giveaway). I asked what I should eat for dessert and he smiled and said, “Well, seeing as you are Madame du Cheesecake, I recommend the Tiramisu.” He was the friendly face I started and ended days with- a cappuccino in the morning, a glass of red in the evenings. We bonded over photography, he’d ask to see photos from my day and then take fifteen minutes to take my order for a glass of house red because he always had some anecdote that one of my photos would remind him of. I was as loyal as a local by the end of the week, I never got his name but he got mine- Madame du Cheesecake. 

On my last night, I went to dine at a gorgeous Michelin favorite, Frenchie. The hostess called to try to persuade me to cancel my solo reservation so they could seat two instead. I was looking forward to this meal all week so like hell was I going to be shamed out of my somewhat-sad table for 1. I applaud this level of savage creativity- they pulled up a single bar stool to the prep counter which clearly was not intended for dining and called it a “very special chef’s table” experience.” I spent three hours entertaining the kitchen while they flirted back with off-menu bites. To my left was this painting by artist Thomas Lelu; it was just words and said “Whatever You Want.” Everytime I read the words in my head, I’d mentally land on the thing I wanted. I wanted to go home. To be with my people. And person. 

I’m trying this new thing where I keep the important parts of my life more private. It’s embarrassing to admit this is a new thing for me. In an era of social media, privacy is a hot commodity and when you share so much of yourself with the world and then take that access away, people notice and talk to you with HR-level sensitivity, in case you’re on the brink of an emotional breakdown and desperately hoping no one can tell. 

In my case, it’s been quite the opposite lately, I’ve been extremely happy. I feel like I’ve been spouting flowery shite about happiness and fulfillment for so long that this mythical happiness decided to come hunt me down to set the record straight and it turns out, we get along better than we ever imagined we could. 

With every trip I’ve taken in the last however many years, I text mum when I’m taking off and when I’m landing. We always say “fly safe, text when you land” and luckily, I always do fly safe and that text is the first I send before the plane even taxis to the gate. I was sitting in that restaurant, staring at the words “whatever you want,” thinking about how I couldn’t wait to text the words “just landed” to my person, who I took with me to Paris as best as I could through my 5 inch phone screen. I have this new found safety and security I forgot was attainable. I’ve always traveled fast- doing all the things all day long and that constant movement came from anxious restlessness. If I ran through Paris this time around, it’s because I wanted to share it all and then come home to my person, my new someone to text when I land (sorry, mum). 

Now, I realize calling someone your “person” has this end-all and be-all connotation. I’ve put plenty of work and therapy-dollars into defining what “my person” means for me and in my personal philosophy on the title, it’s the person you consider as you go about your day and make decisions, and more importantly, it’s the person that makes you want to take care of you in the most fulfilling, healthy way that allows you to still have some part of yourself left over to share. I believe you can have more than one of these people - those are your people- and it’s extraordinarily lucky to find even just one. 

The “text me when you land” people are your safe place, those are the people it feels like a celebration to come home to. Paris, you were a dreamscape, but I like home. I like my “text when you land” people, and those same people are your “good morning” and “sleep well” people and they even genuinely care how you sleep. In some ass-backwards way, I always felt more understood when I’d travel. And now, in reciprocity, I find myself better understood at home because when you have “whatever you want” and all you need, you run a little less, your heart rate slows and you find you’re good right where you are, without the need to overshare or prove anything in case sharing with strangers might make you feel less lonely. 

I hope you have your “text when you land” people and your “sleep well” people. That’s where your home is- in a flood of safety, security, a high-quality hug, followed up with, “let’s just order takeout tonight.”