Weekday mornings in Paris are an odd mélange of city noises and stunning quiet.
It all depends on where you are, of course. Metro stations are a constant stream of people, few chatting as they mostly wear headphones or read a book. Packed trains empty for a second or two before filling again with a new crowd of people heading to put in a day’s work.
The Trocadéro (from which many Instagrammers seek to get the quintessential Parisian self-portrait) is filled with a different kind of hustle and bustle, one made up of tourists who’ve tried to beat the midday crowds. Photographers and their portrait clients cycle through the usual spots: the steps, the fountain, the second set of steps, and so on.
Just a few streets away, however, one can find themselves in a secret Paris – a quiet escape hidden in plain sight.
Ainsley and I met virtually in a Facebook group for female travelers. We’re both photographers and decided it would be fun to exchange photos with one another. A native New Zealander, Ainsley now lives and works in Paris (jealousssssss), so she was privy to this spot just a stone’s throw away from the busy Trocadéro. Free of people and, for the most part, cars, we had a spectacular view all to ourselves. (Also: bloody hell, what I wouldn’t give to live in one of these apartments.)
You see this tree? This wonderful bright pink flowering tree? Absolute perfection to a couple of photographers who love sunshine and color.
Morning in Paris wouldn’t be complete without a bit of carbs and coffee. At Carette I ate a croissant the size of my fist and sipped un crème. Ainsley took her coffee black as I usually do, but this chilly overcast morning called for something a little bit creamier.
Sitting at a café and chatting with a new acquaintance makes me feel like I’m also an ex-pat living in Paris, until I come back to reality when Ainsley is off to run errands and I, the visitor, decide to take a stroll through the Musée d’Orsay. It’s easy to forget that living in Paris isn’t the same as visiting; I don’t have to do laundry or buy groceries or any other mundane task that I usually put off when I’m at home. Still, it doesn’t make me feel better about having to leave the next day. A week in Paris is just never enough.