It’s day three in Paris and the croissants are croissanting. A lot of people smoke cigarettes in Europe. Or maybe it just feels that way because here you don’t have to hide behind a building to do it. So far, I’ve dodged the temptations, and I feel weirdly confident I’ll make it to the end of the trip. Do I get a badge for that?

Paris has personal significance because it’s where my sense of the world expanded for the first time. It was my first trip abroad, for two weeks with my high school French Club twenty years ago.

My outlook was pretty ripe for reconfiguration at the time, maybe advantageously so, because my high school girlfriend and I had just broken up. I remember that part because I held onto a seven- or eight-page handwritten letter I composed for her in a Mead spiral-bound notebook over the course of the trip.

Since then, I’ve been lucky to return to Paris a handful of times. When I’m here, my focus gravitates toward the similarities between Paris and New York. I’m not an Urban Studies major or a cultural historian, but, never mind the built environment, the pace and the vibe of the two places are what make them feel so similar. Nearly everyone is above average in style and confidence, giving off a sense of high agency. People are similarly expressive. You hear a lot of storytelling and rich conversation just walking around.

People say everyone in New York and Paris is hot, which is true. But, maybe it’s been said as many times, I’ve always felt there’s a more pervasive, ambient sexuality in both places—especially New York—that extends beyond people, and practically into the air. The combination of intensity and possibility, set in such a cinematic built world, is an aphrodisiac. It’s probably the main reason I agree with the saying that New York is so expensive because it’s worth it.

This all feels especially true compared to Chicago, where—maybe I’ll write about this sometime—everyone seems like an NPC.

There are other ways Paris and New York feel similar to me. The main one is the subway systems, and how the stations orient you in space. You encounter them at roughly the same frequency, and they’re the same scale. Partly it’s credit to whoever designed them as such great physical logos for the cities. It also seems due to some long-ago-evolved visual mechanism that lets us detect familiar objects from far away. You’ll see 10% of a Metro sign from five blocks out and know exactly what it is. The “clicking into place” feeling from it is the same in both cities.

The apartment I’m renting turned out to be three times nicer than I expected. One entire side is windows overlooking a courtyard full of plant life, and, critically, protected from street noise. All the old building’s materials feel substantial. The place has an amazing polished concrete floor. I’ve been taking breaks during the day to lie down on it. TMI? Oops lol.

Two quirky metal circulation fans lend an outsized amount of character to the space, which is otherwise barebones. One upside of Europeans having limited air conditioning is they’re expert at air circulation, which, when done well, can be 40% as satisfying. And anyway, what’s lost in comfort is gained in the characteristic feeling of being here.

The front door of the building must be five or eight hundred pounds of metal. It seems impossibly massive for a door, especially when it somehow opens and closes perfectly. Strangely, the apartment has design motifs that also appear in the house where I stay in Miami—earth-toned cabinets, Japanese drawer fixtures, and, most weirdly, the same model shower head. All the coincidences make me feel astrologically aligned.

The apartment is perfectly cozy in a way maybe one in twenty first-time stays ever winds up being. This rare sense of connection is enough for me to already consider coming back—practically aside from it being in Paris. I tend to return to places for their space, once I know they’re good.

Everywhere you go here, there is the siren song of the croissant. Halfway into the trip, I’ve eaten about as many croissants as I expected. Which is, like, a lot? Plain croissants. Chocolate croissants. Chocolate croissants with sesame. Some rogue apple tarts here and there.

While there’s no shortage of good bakeries and coffee shops in the neighborhood, I’ve kept going back to the same pair three blocks from my apartment. The repetition is partly about establishing mini routines to #stay_grounded, and also, not coincidentally, because the bakery and the coffee shop are run by a Japanese family and a Taiwanese guy, respectively. So breakfast is this nice intersection of cultures, and their craft, that I admire.

I’ve stopped feeling self-aware about this routine I do when I travel, which is basically a Retail Therapy walk. A few years ago, I realized the thing I do in New York—walking around downtown, dropping into stores, and taking in the hard-to-name energy from it—is portable. I used to feel self-conscious because it’s not the typical “going to see the Mona Lisa” itinerary. But eventually I did that enough to know it feels like checking boxes, and you can see all that stuff online anyway.

So now when I go to a new city, I look up the most walkable commercial neighborhood and head there. I walk and drop into the stores, usually over a day or two. Depending on the trip, I’ll often go back. It’s also a good way to meet interesting people. Store owners and craft-types, especially.

The “retail therapy” isn’t really about buying stuff. It’s more about being in those environments and enjoying the positive energy of well-organized spaces. I like mom-and-pop shops as much as the luxury brands. Both have their charms. These days, the interior design and displays in, say, a Ferragamo store feel basically museum quality.

Working for a big CPG company, we do “store checks,” which are impromptu drop-ins to see how products are presented in situ. Doing store checks has made me notice the subtleties of “things on shelves” in a way that makes being in a Target or convenience store about seven times more compelling than it used to be. Not to say that going to Target wasn’t awesome already.

Planning the trip, I picked Le Marais neighborhood as a base. The place feels like thirty Dimes Squares all chained together. Which is to say: it’s very cool. There are many good shops—vintage toy stores, stationery stores, home goods.

I don’t know if it’s a politically transgressive thing or the rising popularity of Charli XCX, but no one is wearing a bra here. Like, no one got the bra memo this week in Paris. Seems wild, actually.

Last week, before the trip, I was at my friend Jane’s house, and her friend Terry was there. Jane introduced us, and we chatted in Jane’s kitchen, which—speaking of—is a space that lends energy. It came up that I was going to Paris, and Terry mentioned she used to live here. I asked for any recommendations.

Terry said, “I used to spend a lot of time at this bookstore by the Seine, The Abbey Bookshop. I’d go there just about every day. You could buy a nice bottle of wine, go there, and ask for Brian Spence. Tell him Terry says hello.”

Definitely.

I was into this idea. Go visit Mysterious Person X at Chic Riverside Location Y. Gift them a special elixir.

Jane took out $40 cash to contribute to this new side quest. I wrote down the details in my trip itinerary.

Yesterday I walked over to the the other side of the river. Right before the bookstore, there was an adorable, well-curated wine shop. I walked in and told the owner I was buying a gift for someone I didn’t know, on behalf of his friend, who I also didn’t really know, but who is cool—and asked for his recommendation.

With as much of a yes-and attitude as Terry, he started describing his pick. We made eye contact and he blinked only a few times.

“I wouldn’t buy him a bottle of wine. I would buy him a bottle of liquor. Wine is nice, but it’s temporary. It lasts one night. But if you give him liquor, it stays in his home, and the memory lasts much longer. I personally like rum. This is a very special one from France. You cannot go wrong with it. This is the one I would get him.”

Wow, bro. Save some Daddy energy for the rest of us.

The anticlimactic part of the story starts now.

I went to the bookstore with the bottle of rum. Brian wasn’t there. Two French, suspiciously good-looking bookstore clerks who know him were. They were delighted enough by the gesture to promise the bottle would be delivered to Brian, but not enough to let me cruise around waiting to see if he would materialize. I attached a handwritten note and phoned Jane to let Terry know the package was delivered.

I’m running out of energy writing this so I will leave it here. A lot more has happened. I went to the Pompidou. It was rad. I will get a turkey sandwich now.