You know those people—we all do—who go to Disneyland all the time? Not parents with small children, I am talking about full-grown adults. (You know who you are. I am not judging. Well, a little.) For most of us, it seems ludicrous that they don the mouse ears repeatedly, walk around the same park, and ride the same rides again and again. How many times can you hug a duck or a princess? But for them, the motto “The Happiest Place on Earth” is self-evident. Being in that environment, that bubble of joy, is the only place where they feel free to let go of their worries, where the things they love most surround them, and where they can drink deeply of that cult juice. The second they leave and are walking back to the Jiminy Cricket section of the parking lot they are already planning their next visit.

But here I am walking the streets of Paris for the fourth time in the past nine months and while I don’t wear mouse ears when I do, I suddenly have a strong desire to buy a black beret. I don’t because I imagine my friend, Tim, roasting me very publicly if he were to see a photo. The point I am making is that I have a deeper understanding of the Disney tribe because, like them, Paris makes me so damn happy and I cannot get enough. I haven’t tired of it one bit. In fact, I feel like I have barely scratched the surface. There are twenty neighborhoods (arrondissements) inside the loop freeway that encircles the city, unfurling like a snail shell from the center outwards, and I’ve only been to half of them. Each one has its own vibe and personality and this is what gives Paris so much of what makes Paris, Paris. It’s not a monolithic city; there are multiple versions of it with certain things in common holding it together: boulangeries, restaurants (Over 44,000 of them at last count, and 100 of those are Michelin-rated), pharmacies, architecture, and the Metro. I think you can say bicycles now, too. Paris does a pretty good impression of Amsterdam these days. I would also add Parisian waiters to that list. What would Paris be without its wait staff?

Just as I can’t really hold a Disney lover accountable for irrational opinions of the magic kingdom, nor can anyone expect me to defend my position that I think Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. Since last years’ Olympic games, it’s even more so. The streets are cleaner. The Seine runs clear. The gold leaf shines on top of the monuments and statues. Notre Dame is almost finished being rebuilt after the horrible fire of 2019, and the inside is now a bright light-filled experience. Regardless of your religious beliefs it will take your breath away. The parks, Les Jardin des Plantes, Luxembourg Gardens, Le Champ de Mars, Tuileries Garden, all of them, are comfortable tree-lined and water-filled spaces with ample benches for sitting and absorbing the moment. That moment is often filled with thoughts like, “Damn, I am in Paris. Damn.” Even the gritty Canal Saint-Martin has a certain charm about it with the brightly painted buildings on either side, the steep bridges that cross over, and the people eating their ham and cheese sandwiches while sitting atop the wall next to the slow moving water.

Notre Dame Cathedral is restored to better than before

It’s not just the physical city itself. The people in Paris are so beautiful, especially the mature women. Yes, the young woman walking past with all their confidence, fashionable clothes, and stunning cheekbones do impress, but who I notice more so are the women over 50. So many of them are natural beauties that don’t appear to have given in to the knife or the needle. They look comfortable in their own skin. They dress to embrace their age, neither over- nor under-stated, and always elegant. They own the sidewalk when they pass me and I move over sightly when necessary. I don’t dare share the runway. I now understand how in France it is not at all uncommon for women over 50 to be having relationships with men twenty years their junior. This, too, is Paris.

So, now here I am walking down the street somewhere in Paris—anywhere in Paris—and I pass a boulangerie with all its pastry and bread in the window and I have to stop myself from eating another f’ing croissant; next door might be one of many wine shops in Paris, it might specialize in Burgundy or Bordeaux, or nasty natural wines; after that, a small restaurant, one of the new Japanese-French inspired fusion places, or a wood-fired pizza palace that I can smell from 100 feet away; sticking out perpendicular from the building façade is a neon green plus sign indicating one of the many excellent pharmacies that sell high-end products that Chien loves; next to it is a patisserie window with rows of glistening fruit tarts, delicate tarte de citron, strawberry or raspberry delights, chocolate eclairs, or any number of beautiful and edible works of art. Continuing along there is a kids toy store, many made from wood; a bike repair shop, now necessary in this new bike-obsessed Paris; an antique store, its windows filled with objects d’art, paintings, silver, or any number of things from France’s glorious past; a cheese shop with hundreds of cheeses from all over France on display, just beckoning me, even with croissant crumbs all over my shirt I am easily wooed in; a book shop, antique, used, or otherwise; and oh look, a gelato place with its requisite line out the door. And on literally every single corner, a brasserie with people sitting outside enjoying an apero, a coffee, or just enjoying the passers by. It’s no wonder I feel so at home here, and how can I not be? An entire city and its residents obsessed with and dedicated to food, wine, culture, art, learning, history, and beauty. Is Disneyland really the “The Happiest Place on Earth?” These people here look pretty dang content to me.

Crepes from Marché des Enfants-Rouge. Gimme some!

**Père-Lachaise Cemetery in Paris where many famous people are buried including Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, and Amadeus Modigliani**

Of course, these are the things you see at street level. High above them are tunnels of mature plane trees shading you from the sun. As you walk along, you might pass a hedge of intensely sweet Jasmin clamoring over the walls of a private garden. Above this all are the building facades, the most beautiful of those are the Haussmannian, those magnificent five- and six-story buildings that were built between the 1840s and 1920s. Named after the “architect” Baron Georges-Eugène Haussmann, a Parisian official with no architectural background, who tore down and then revamped much of the city at the request of Emperor Napoleon III. Widely despised at the time for displacing so many people, we can only thank him for now these stunning buildings. They are probably what you think of when you picture Parisian streets and their charming stonework, wrought iron balconies, and tall windows. Impressive in their intricate design but also human in scale, walking under them along one of the many Rues is an authentic experience that is truly Paris. It’s why I never tire of the city. And my God, at night? After it rains? There just isn’t any other place in the world quite like Paris.

We drank quite a few of these while in Paris

We did a cooking class one night and met some really fantastic people while learning to cook French classics

Prior to May 2024, I had never been to Paris. It's something I keep thinking about. Why did I wait so long? How was I able to continually convince myself that I would get there “someday” and continue to deprive myself of such a life-affirming city for so long? I may have mentioned it in a previous post that my mother once told me after she returned from a trip to Paris that if I ever went there, I would never come back. She knew me better than anyone, and she was mostly right: I am in living in France now, just not Paris. But it does help to explain why I have been to Paris four times in the past year, and I still have two more trips planned in 2025.

You are probably wondering why I didn’t just move there instead of the south of France. It’s a fair question. The answer is a muddled one. To my mind I thought it would be too expensive. I told myself I couldn’t live in such a tiny space, as the apartments there average 46 square meters, or 495 square feet. The weather is too hot and humid in the summer and way too cold in the winter. These are all stories I told myself that I have now come to realize I could have overcome. At least I think so. Anyway, it’s irrelevant because Chien-hui doesn’t share my cult-like obsession with Paris. Having come from Taipei, she’s understandably had it with cramped spaces and over population. And as I sit here writing this from my 250 square foot balcony in Nice overlooking a courtyard with magnolia and banana trees, listening to the songbirds singing, surrounded by three-hundred-year-old stone buildings, I can see my neighbors’ sheets swaying from their balconies in the soft breeze, all this under azure, blue skies. I must admit I completely understand her position.

Obviously, even if I don’t live in Paris, I can and do go as often as I want. And like my Disney friends, I can’t wait to go back to Paris again. If fact, I get to go next week after we finish a few days touring the vineyards of Burgundy with our friends Mark and Marie. After four times in Paris, I now understand that there can never be enough times, and I know what’s coming when I get there. The beauty of Paris will surround me and my senses will alight, and I will feel the rush, and I will be overwhelmed with uncontrollable passion, and I will pine to move there. It’s just my nature. Chien-hui will look at me with a look that I know well, and I will know to give it a rest, and she will be right, as she always is. But while I am there, at least in my heart, I will be wearing that black beret while I’m in my version of the happiest place in the world.

Is it Possible to Go to Paris Too Many Times?

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Is it Possible to Go to Paris Too Many Times?

Road trip to Normandy, Brittany, and the Loire Valley: Part 4

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