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Bonjour! I’m Erin.
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Category Archives: Travel
Sometimes words feel unnecessary. I’ll have something to say on my next post, when I finally (!) wrap up the photos from this trip (you know, just over a month after going. Remember the days when people, myself included, blogged every single day??). Until then…
You know me well enough by now to know I’m not a nature person. I prefer concrete, crowds, and the noise of the city. I find the silence of nature unnerving, suspicious even. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy brief jaunts in small doses, but my comfort zone is certainly 100& urban. The same is true for beaches; I’m not a beach person. I don’t like the sun, the sand, the idea of laying somewhere for hours that isn’t an air conditioned room. I’m not really an outdoors person in any sense of the word, in case you hadn’t guessed.
So you’d think a town bumping right up against the Mediterranean sea, whose biggest draw was that it has both grand beaches and a majestic nature park with rocky calanques at either end, wouldn’t be a place I’d fall head over heels in love with. La Ciotat proved me wrong. I went to the beach both days and the calanques at the foot of Parc du Mugel, where I spread a blanket under a tree and read in the shade for hours. The water was remarkable: crystal clear and azur blue, and refreshingly crisp but not too cold (people were swimming!). The great thing about going to a beach resort town off-season was how few people there were; I know if I’d gone even a month earlier, at the end of August, it would have been impossible to have an entire rocky inlet to myself (something that normally would have freaked me out, but in these circumstances made me feel like I’d discovered a secret portal to heaven).
I’d seen pictures of Parc du Mugel and the calanques before I left, but nothing prepared me for it in real life. Photos can’t even do it justice. The air, the breeze, the sound of the water against the rocks, the complete isolation from noise and people, and, most importantly, the color of the water. I read, I stared at the sea, I napped, I lay there doing nothing. It helped that it was late September and the temperatures were in the low 70s. But by late afternoon on my second day, I had to fight to peel myself off of the rocks and get on the train back to Paris. I could’ve happily stayed there forever.
And the beach! It turns out, I don’t hate the beach, I hate American beaches, with the powdery, suffocating sand, the overwhelming smell of brine, and the filthy water. (Do you know how much trash I saw in La Ciotat? None. I saw zero trash, at the beach, in the water, in the park, or in the town itself.) The beaches in La Ciotat were made of teensy little sand pebbles, not grit, and the water was clean and smelled like fresh salt–like a candle, an almost artificial approximation of how a beach should smell. If you grow up thinking the beaches in New Jersey are representative of all beaches, no wonder you detest going to the beach. To not have to pluck sand from your bodily crevices for a full day after going swimming, did you even know such a luxury existed? Get thee to the south of France! Where everything, including the sand, is better.
My trip was over all too quickly, and by 5:30 I was in Marseille boarding a train back to Paris. If I didn’t love Sundays in Paris so much, I would’ve stayed an extra day. Could’ve, easily. Even though there isn’t much of anything to do in La Ciotat (and a character laments that fact early on in my book), that’s kind of the whole point. I felt more relaxed after a single afternoon reading by the water than any yoga or meditation class back home. There was something centering and restorative about that town, and I’m already dying to go back.
I want to tell you all about La Ciotat.
Four years ago, I closed my eyes and pointed at a map of France, aiming along the southern coast between Marseille and Monaco. I needed a small seaside town that wasn’t well-known, not overly touristy, a little less glitzy and moneyed that the obvious resort towns like Cannes and Nice. Somewhere working-class French locals went every summer. I ended up in La Ciotat, approximately 20km east of Marseille, near Cassis. Famous for being the town where the Lumiere brothers made one of the first motion pictures–of a train pulling in the station–and the birthplace of pétanque–French bocce–La Ciotat is a quaint, sleepy commune with all the charm of the Côte d’Azur, but little present-day notoriety. In other words, it was a perfect place to open my novel. Thanks to Google Maps, I was able to craft four or five chapters in the town; how hard is it to write about two characters spending afternoons at the beach when you can visit the beach in Street View, even if it’s thousands of miles away?
After a whirlwind 30 hour trip in real life, I can safely say I got it mostly right.
On my first Friday in Paris, I took an early morning Uber to Gare de Lyon, where I boarded a train to Marseille. It was raining that morning in Paris, a rarity this trip, but as the train pulled further and further south, the clouds cleared and the sun started shining. Three hours later (after a nap and some quality reading time), we disembarked at Saint-Charles station to balmy weather and a thick, glorious sunshine unlike anything I’d seen before. The light truly is different down there, and even someone as sun-averse as myself, I had a hard time resisting its glow. I bought a ticket for a local train headed to Hyères, and within half an hour I’d arrived in La Ciotat. (Side-note: no one ever checked my ticket on the local train, to or from Marseille, so I basically donated €8 to SNCF out of the kindness of my heart.)(Side-note #2: the French rail system is a thing of beauty and a model of convenience.)
All of my research and Google Earth stalking hadn’t prepared me for just how cute this place is; I couldn’t handle it. The bus into the center of town–which cost a whopping 90 cents for an all-day pass–played Stromae and Keane (!!), and as it rounded a corner and I got my first view of the glittering Mediterranean water in the early afternoon sun, I gasped out loud. Being late September, the town was mostly empty of tourists, leaving only locals around and all of the restaurant terraces facing the sea empty. La Ciotat is small, I can’t stress that enough; I walked from one end of the waterfront to the other in about 40 minutes. One the north side there are long beaches, and all the way at the south is a giant nature reserve, Parc du Mugel, with calanques and rocky inlets with shrubby swimming holes, and tons of fishing boats docked in the Vieux Port in the middle of town. It’s decidedly working-class and unfussy, there’s graffiti and the paint on every building is delightfully chippy. The age of the local population averaged about 60, from my brief study, and the pace there is just different, slower, more relaxed. Melted, even.
I stayed right at the end of the Vieux Port, overlooking boats bobbing in the dock, and the long pier that marks the end of the city center. At the end of the pier is a two-story dance club called Sûr Les Quais, which features a different theme and DJ every night, and also features prominently in the beginning of my book. Since it was the off-season and the hotel was empty, they upgraded my room at check-in, and so I was able to write on my large balcony the next morning, staring directly at the club. It was the eeriest thing, being in a place that for so long has felt fictional, alive only on the page for me. I half-expected my characters to come stumbling out of the club at 4am–when the town finally went to sleep that night!–and call for me at my window. (Does that sound psychotic?)
For dinner that night, I ate along the water at a crêpe restaurant, and brought a book with me. I’d started reading Julia Child’s “My Life in France” on the plane to Paris–I like themed reading–and she had been casually narrating my trip thus far, describing Paris in September as the weather changed, etc. As I tucked into my dessert, I was about 200 pages in when Julia’s husband Paul gets reassigned to a posting in Marseille. “Oh!” I thought. “How funny. Now she’s following me to the south of France.” Not a paragraph later, she and Paul take a drive along the coast with a packed picnic lunch, and stop in La Ciotat for the afternoon. My eyes bulged out of my head. There I was, sitting in La Ciotat, reading about Julia Child sitting in La Ciotat, a town I’d never heard of before randomly picking it off a map years before. Spooky!
The whole experience in the town felt like that, honestly. Like I’d made this place up and it had come to life on its own, existing exactly the way I’d written it, and only for me. To say I’d fallen in love would be an understatement.
Look! Photos of people! This trip I grew more comfortable taking photos of people, rather than waiting for everyone to leave my shot, and also not taking photos, rather than walking around with my camera glued to my face. This was my tenth trip, and I felt noticeably more relaxed about capturing the city; in ten trips, I think I’ve taken every cliché photo you can take of Paris, how many more shots of the Eiffel Tower or Haussmann buildings do I really need? I still ended up shooting plenty, but was also contented to simply look at things and experience them without immediately reaching for my camera. There’s an oversaturation of blogs and Instagram accounts and communities that highlight Paris, and with them, an unnecessary pressure to keep up and compete and feel included (at least for me). It was nice to break that reflex this time and not worry about missing the perfect shot of light hitting the dome of a grand building (if only because I already have hundreds).
And can we talk about those leaves? My daily trek through the Jardin du Luxembourg allowed me to watch the change of the season and the foliage on an ever-changing basis, and my god. I’ve now been in Paris in March, May, June, August, September, November, and December, and I used to think late May-early June was my favorite time of year here, but September swooped in and proved me wrong. Those colors!
To quote a little Doris Day: I love Paris in the springtime. And now I can safely confirm that I love Paris in the fall. I’ve been to Paris now in every season, this being my first trip during the arrival of autumn, though it certainly won’t be my last. It’s impossible to pick a favorite season; even dark, cold winter has its charms. The weather while I was there was beyond glorious: chilly in the morning and blue skies almost every single day, with the afternoon turning slightly warm. I slept with my apartment windows open, and would peel off my scarf by lunchtime, wandering with my coat open and basking in the incredible sunlight that seems to be somehow exclusive to the city. I didn’t think I could love Paris any more than I did, and then I went in the fall.
The French class I took at the Alliance Française added a structure to the trip that has been otherwise absent, unless you count self-imposed writing deadlines or my very strict macaron-consumption schedule. I was in class Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays for three hours every afternoon, and my route to class on the 85 bus took me through the city from Pigalle, past Les Halles, across Île de la Cité, and ended next to the Luxembourg gardens, where I would cross straight through and pop out on the western side of the park on Rue de Fleurus, where the class was. Not a terrible commute. I fell in love with that jardin, watching the foliage change from green to gold to orange in the two weeks I was there. And while the class was challenging, and left my brain exhausted juggling le mise en relief (level B2!), I absolutely loved it, and am already considering another longer stint there. The class I take at the Alliance Française in Philadelphia is only one night a week for two hours, while the Alliance there offers far more intensive options that I know would get me to my certification faster. That’s my ultimate goal: native fluency.
More photos to come (including lots of leaves, and a weekend trip to the coast).
I’ve always said I’d be a really good rich person. When the Powerball lottery was over $700 million this past weekend, I (like everyone else, I’m sure) considered all the things I would spend the winnings on–roughly $400 million after taxes, assuming you took the lump sum, which you absolutely should because the annuity option is a scam. I don’t consider myself an overly greedy person, despite the name (and, well, overall tone) of this blog, and my wishlist isn’t huge. I wouldn’t buy cars, or fancy clothes, or multiple McMansions. I would immediately purchase a reasonably sized apartment in Paris, and roll the rest of the money into savings. It doesn’t even have to be an ~especially luxurious~ apartment in Paris, though I’ve done plenty of drooling over those around here. No, I wouldn’t buy a huge mansion with Eiffel Tower views, that would be wasteful. (Never mind the fact that I can’t fathom how you even keep a place with 20 rooms clean all the time, I can barely manage in my current two bedroom. How do you even know how much toilet paper to buy for 10 bathrooms?) Just something modest but not a hole. It wouldn’t even have to have a hidden bookshelf door into a secret room, the ultimate Rich Person House Accessory and something I used to fantasize about as a kid. Maybe it’s the maturity that comes with old age (I am just five months away from 31, after all), but the idea of suddenly having $400 million dollars didn’t fill my eyes with dollar signs a la Scrooge McDuck. I don’t want or need things to fill a space so obscenely large I could leave multiple rooms empty forever. I’d just like to be able to buy a place to rest my head in my favorite city in the world, and enough money to go back and forth six or seven times a year, IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?
Alas, I didn’t even play the lottery. And the woman that won took the annuity option and promptly quit her job, two decisions I find both stupid and stereotypical. Ugh. She doesn’t even deserve it. I love my job, and I wouldn’t quit just because overnight I became a multimultimulti-millionaire, but you can bet I’d at least stop packing a lunch for myself in an effort to be financially savvy. Give me ALL the avocado toast!
But of course, I couldn’t resist looking at apartments I would’ve snapped up. And, surprisingly, most of them seemed too big or too lavish. Out of the options I settled on, the most expensive one is just over a million euros. I don’t even know who I am anymore!
Herewith, a few contenders. Half are two bedrooms, so I could have guests stay with me. I told you, I’d be a really thoughtful millionaire.
Option 1: Modern Neutrals in the 6eme
A two bedroom duplex in the heart of Saint-Germain, with a small balcony and interesting architectural details. Price: 780,000€
Option 2: Chic Classical near the Luxembourg Gardens
A two bedroom stunner near Boulevard Raspail, with herringbone parquet and tons of natural light. Price: 877,000€
Option 3: Quirky and Artsy near Rue Saint-Honoré
If my dad were ever to have an apartment in Paris, this is it. Filled with books and sunlight, this one bedroom has a lofted area (can you say ‘writing nook’?) and a terrace with a view of the Eiffel tower across the rooftops and Tuileries. Price: 630,000€
Option 4: Updated Character on the Île Saint-Louis
Another one bedroom, this one on the tiny island behind Notre Dame, but there’s plenty of space in the living room to inflate an air mattress. Those beams! That light! Price: 1,150,000€
August 30, 2017 / Travel /
Two weeks ago, I went to New York for a work trip to see & photograph & write about the Patek Philippe Grand Exhibition of Watches near Grand Central. (I know, I know, my job is still the coolest.) I took the train up and back, which felt luxurious (and was also faster) compared to the Bolt Bus. I had a few hours in the afternoon to myself, and I immediately headed to the Upper East Side to hit what I like to refer to as the “Erin Trifecta”: macarons at Ladurée on Madison Avenue, a pop into Albertine Bookstore at the French Embassy on Fifth Avenue, and a stroll around the European Paintings wing at The Met. I couldn’t have scheduled a more magical day for myself if I tried; it wasn’t even that hot and muggy, which, for mid-July in Manhattan, was pretty thrilling. It was a long day–caught a 9am train up and got home a little after 7pm–but a reminder that life is good, and my job is good, and carrying my camera around again is good.
Also macarons. Macarons are so good.
PS. I didn’t plan on taking the month of July off from writing here (2017 has not been my best blogging year, let’s just say that), and it felt like old times getting this post together. I’m writing offline like never before, for work and for my novel. I’m about a month-and-a-half out from my next Paris trip, so I’m also mentally packing and making lists and counting down the days. My day in New York is a precursor for things to come in Paris: macarons, a museum, bookstores. Pas mal.
Hi! I’m alive! I’m so sorry. I never intended to be gone from here for over a month, but there was always something else that felt more pressing in the rare times I found to sit at my desk–writing, chief among them. I’ve missed you! Tell me, what’s been going on? Besides work, the things that are occupying my time are mostly listed above. Oh, and writing. So, so much writing.
Three years ago today, I landed in Paris for a two-month stint to work on my novel and, as cliché as it sounds, “find myself.” (The jury is still out on whether I should have come home.) It’s crazy to think how long ago that was; of all my Paris trips since (there have been five), that one still feels the most vivid and still with me. The weeks that I was there were transformative beyond words–literally. I wrote and wrote and wrote while I was there, and that still wasn’t the most important part of my experience. It was one of the happiest stretches of time in my life before or since, and my frequent trips back are, on some level, desperate attempts to repeat that magic, to find that feeling of absolute calm and certitude. It’s hard to explain to people the feeling that every day, you should be somewhere else, that your life is happening somewhere else without you, but it’s even harder to live it. That’s why I bounce back and forth so frequently.
(Also the butter.)
These photos are a bit belated (I’ve been back for over a month!) but about two weeks after I took them, I booked another flight back to Paris. I leave in 139 days. I’m going alone, again, and planning on taking a round of French class at the Alliance Française there and ducking out of town for the weekend and heading to La Ciotat, along the southern coast by Marseille. A large portion of my book takes place in that tiny town, and it would be nice to see it in person.
Until then, I’ll be reminiscing about the beautiful weeks I spent in Paris in the spring and early summer of 2014, about the gorgeous light, the view from the top, and the wonderful, unexpected moments that all feel like it was just yesterday.
My mom and I went to the Grand Palais one morning to see the Rodin centennial exhibit, only to find the line an unbearable two hours long. I’m not an over-planner on vacation, but I should’ve realized this exhibit would be popular enough to warrant advance tickets. I went on to my phone and purchased us timed-entry tickets for a few days later, and as we stood in front of the massive building wondering, “Well, what now?” my mom pointed across the street to the Petit Palais and said, “What’s in there?” In one of those classic happy-accidents, the Petit Palais ended up being a delightful (and free!) experience. The building itself was gorgeous, with a lush, newly-blooming round garden and café in the middle, and more intricate tile and skylights inside than I could handle. The permanent collection includes paintings and sculptures from the Renaissance through the 1900s, including Courbet, Pissarro, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Cézanne, among others. I deeply regret not purchasing a little notebook with Georges Clarin’s portrait of Sarah Bernhardt on it in the gift shop (next time).
After we left, we headed down the Champs-Élysées to Concorde, and then walked the whole length of the Tuileries. The blue skies were out in abundance again, and neither of us felt much like doing anything other than soaking them in. We were eventually coaxed inside by the prospect of lunch at Angelina, though we were quickly back outside and en route to the Palais Royal for another sun-soaked stroll. The bright pink magnolia trees were in full bloom, and everyone seemed to have the same idea we did; the gardens are so photogenic, especially in the spring.