Vague à l’Heart
Paris, they say, is the city of lights, of love, of lives imagined and reimagined. It called me back not just as a traveller but as someone longing to meet myself anew. And I mean, called me, as for the first time in a very long time, I allowed myself to listen so carefully. I came to rediscover not only the winding streets and the gentle curve of the Seine, but the soft voice within, the one that gets muffled in everyday survival.
Each morning, I woke to the relentless chorus of birdsong outside Jardin des Plantes. Every morning it brought me to smile as it nudged me gently from sleep before the city’s engines truly began to hum. There was something sacred about that hour — golden, unclaimed, fragrant with possibility. I walked and walked the city, watching the way light fell on stone, how shadows moved slowly across benches and facades. Paris, in all its pace, invited me to slow down.
I wandered off-script, away from the polished postcards and curated museum lines, allowing myself to get lost in the folds of the city. There’s a quiet intimacy in walking through less-touristed neighbourhoods. At Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, I found not just the tombs of the famous but the poetry of moss, silence, and old names almost forgotten. I lingered in the stillness, letting it mirror the places in me that were also grieving, also remembering. Grief sat beside me, not loud or sharp, but soft-edged — like the whisper of someone you once knew well, still showing up in dreams. I let myself feel the ache that rises when you’ve loved hard and lost parts of yourself in the process. But also the gratitude for having come through. For having left what needed leaving. For choosing, again and again, to begin.
The grief didn’t disappear. But it softened. It made room. And in that space, I felt a strange tenderness for the version of me who had once been buried under silence. I wanted to tell her: you’re blooming now, too.
The flea markets became their own kind of ritual — slow walks among rusted keys, embroidered linens, old postcards, and chandeliers missing half their crystals. In vintage book markets, I turned through pages that smelled of dust and ink, peeking into forgotten thoughts and underlined poetry from decades past. These spaces offered a glimpse into the unedited lives of Paris, not the version dressed for tourists, but something raw, layered, and beautifully human.
I practised listening. Not to podcasts or messages or the ever-churning mental list — but to my body. To the rhythm of my steps. To the subtle no’s and the quiet, tender yes’s. I listened to how the waiter would greet me — Bonjour, madame — and how it always felt kind, a small ceremony of recognition in a city that can so often feel like a performance. I let my body lead me to sun-washed courtyards and unexpected doorways, to chance encounters and quiet cafés where no one rushed me to leave.
This trip became a masterclass in romanticising the moments. A cup of thick, dark coffee at a sidewalk table was not just a drink — it was a ceremony of presence. A stranger’s smile at the marché, the sound of birds, the sound of metro door alarms, the slow warmth of afternoon light — all of it asked me to stay awake to the magic that happens when you are simply… here.
And then, there was serendipity — the art of leaving space in my days for the unexpected. A spontaneous conversation at a corner bakery. A vinyl record playing Nina Simone through an open window. A tucked-away garden revealed through an unmarked gate. Paris revealed its secrets to me not when I chased them, but when I paused and let them unfold.
It was there, near the Sein yet again one evening, light softening the outlines of the city, that I felt the ache and sweetness. Feeling both enough and love. I now call it Vague à l’Heart — a wave of feeling, both longing and love. A soft melancholy edged with gratitude. The knowing that even as I move through new places, I am always walking toward myself.
I returned carrying with me the scent of old paper and spring blossoms, the echo of accordion music in narrow alleys, and the certainty that slowness, presence, and wonder are my true compass. I don’t need to rush. I just need to listen.
