Word on the Street: in Paris

As I observed a fountain in Paris spray water in a serene, steady pattern — comforted that it wouldn’t change as long as I kept watching — one of my best friends, Mira, told me not to date the guy I just asked her about.

We started that same day by dancing around our rented flat. Mira sang into her Oral-B toothbrush as the music got louder and her Airbnb rating lower. It was 09:00 am, and we were already ‘woo’ girls, flailing granny panties to Mira’s Spotify daylist titled “Girly Bedroom Pop Banger Early Morning” (IYKYK). After finalising our cohesive-looking outfits, we boogied out the door — they didn’t match too much (forbid it looked like we tried). Our apartment was on the fifth floor, but it felt like the twentieth. Its yellow front door marked the end of an 18th-century staircase that would’ve made us complain if we were anywhere but in Paris. As we stepped onto Rue du Chemin Vert in the 11th, the staircase cardio was forgotten, along with the rest of our worries.

We headed down our familiar route toward Fauna, a brunch spot about as “French” as Tesco’s brioche rolls. But their coffee was strong, like our American “we’re the cool, basically local tourists” accents. It took us longer than usual after we missed three turns from laughing about everything that, once again, would not have been funny if we were anywhere else but in Paris.

Mira and I had committed to romanticising our spring vacation. It was a long weekend meant to escape my endless regimen of perfectionism at University and Mira’s hamster wheel in NYC, which consisted of a demanding job, bad dates, and expensive prices that made even Paris feel ‘affordable’. As a favour made by the city itself, we became the main characters of our own Nancy-Meyers-style movie. Our days consisted of roaming without a destination and eyeing well-groomed dogs (and men), letting Duolingo talk as our minds went silent. In five sunny days, my nervous system was settled and my stomach filled. Julia Child was onto something because it only took croissants, bread, and butter to cure both my anxiety and sporadic IBS. That is, with intermittent digestion breaks in one of Paris’ 420-odd parks and gardens.

Place des Vosges — one of Paris’s hidden green-space gems — is where Mira and I digested our second breakfast to refuel from that morning’s dance party. With the view of its weathered ivory-stoned fountain, we lay parallel to the sunny skies in a T-shape — crispy grapes and yesterday’s market olives within equal arm’s length at the centre of our bodily vertex. She told me about her insecurities back home in a way that made them seem removed from the present moment. I shared my hot takes about dating, which felt milder in the sun. I heard Mira’s heartbeat under her linen waistcoat, slow and steady, despite the friendly unloading of trauma.

As a hopeless romantic, romanticising too hard, I left the present, very serene moment in the park. I closed my eyes, imagining my hopefully not-so-single future. I walked down the fantastical roster of meh-dates and ex-situationships.

“Who could I go to Paris with?” I asked myself, as many [single] girls in their mid-twenties do.
After minutes of daydreaming in the sun, I made my decision.
“What do you think about me going on another date with Lucas?” I asked Mira, imaginatively rhetorical but verbally figurative.
“Honestly, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she answered with a very reasonable explanation that my selective hearing couldn’t hear.
The peacemaking Libra in me smiled back, “I completely agree”.

I wondered what possessed her to answer honestly. But, instead of ruminating on this question, France’s crisp, recently billion-pound-cleaned-for-the-Olympics air prompted me to shift my toxic thinking patterns. I sat up, breaking the human right angle, and asked her to elaborate. Not moving, eyes still closed as she reached for an olive, she explained (again). Her advice didn’t surprise me, but my receptiveness to it did.

Constructive criticism in the workplace or a parental suggestion stings in the moment. But, with time, you learn to appreciate the messenger. This was the case with Mira, but it only took me seconds to admire the power of our relationship. And two weeks later, I loved her even more when Lucas hard-launched his new girlfriend on Instagram (no, you really can’t make this stuff up).

Why are we best at receiving feedback from those who know us the least? Because it spares our feelings. Why are we so bad at giving it to the people we love most? Because we want to protect theirs. But, as somebody afraid of conflict (Libra), I concluded that by not being honest, I’m not sparing anybody’s feelings but my own. I’m protecting myself from awkwardness in a selfish attempt to be liked. In the workplace, a common goal justifies any criticism as long as the product is improved. In friendships, we are that product. It’s time that we allocate time for constructive advice to those we love and vice versa. Just like you would with a child in school or romantic relationships, to help them grow. And if you haven’t yet, consider letting go of the roster. Repurpose the mental energy to save for a trip to Paris with your best friend.