A City of Light and Stone
Paris. This city, spread across a basin where the Seine meanders gently, holds more than a thousand years of time layered upon itself. Medieval churches rise atop Roman ruins, surrounded by nineteenth-century stone buildings. The orderly boulevards born of Baron Haussmann’s urban transformation coexist with labyrinthine alleyways, and from café terraces, one can still see the same views the bohemians once knew.
The French Revolution, the Belle Époque, two World Wars. Through the turbulence of history, Paris has maintained its unchanging elegance. Cobblestone streets, cream-colored building walls, iron balconies. The entire city feels like a museum, yet real life unfolds within it. In the mornings, queues form outside bakeries; at dusk, cafés overflow with people.
To explore this city in two nights and three days—perhaps it would only be skimming the surface. Yet simply walking the cobblestones, biting into bread, and gazing at the surface of the Seine felt like touching something essential.
Day 1: Footsteps on Cobblestone
I arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport just past ten in the morning. Boarding the RER Line B, I watched the suburban landscape flow past the window as the train carried me toward the city center. Gray skies, rows of identical apartment towers, and gradually, the buildings grew lower. When I stepped off at Saint-Michel–Notre-Dame station and emerged above ground, the air was damp, carrying the scent of stone.
Early November in Paris was cold. Even with a light coat, my neck felt the chill. My hotel stood on a narrow street in the Latin Quarter—a small inn converted from an eighteenth-century building. The woman at the front desk informed me in fluent English that my room wouldn’t be ready until two o’clock. I left my luggage and headed out into the city.
My first destination was Notre-Dame Cathedral. Even with restoration work continuing after the 2019 fire, the Gothic edifice rising on the Île de la Cité in the Seine retained its commanding presence. From beyond the construction barriers, I looked up at where the spire once stood. What thoughts had the stonemasons carried, more than eight hundred years ago, as they stacked these stones?
I took lunch at a small crêperie on the Île Saint-Louis. A galette complète—a buckwheat crêpe topped with ham, cheese, and egg. The fragrant smell of batter cooking on the iron griddle filled the shop. I ordered cider, and it came in a ceramic cup. From my seat by the window, I watched people pass along the cobblestone street. A young couple, an elderly woman with shopping bags, a group of tourists.
In the afternoon, I walked the Left Bank. Passing the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, I walked by Café de Flore without stopping—the tourist prices gave me pause. Instead, I ducked into an unnamed café on a side street. I ordered an espresso at the counter and drank it standing, in one go. The dense bitterness lingered on my tongue. This, I thought, is everyday Paris.
I walked on to the Church of Saint-Sulpice and stopped before the massive building. I had wanted to see Delacroix’s frescoes, but the doors were closed. I turned toward the Luxembourg Gardens. Bare trees, gravel paths, green iron chairs. Children were sailing model boats on the pond. I sat on a bench and spent a while in idle reverie.
In the late afternoon, I returned to the hotel and collected my room key. Up the narrow spiral staircase, the third-floor room had a low ceiling, and the window looked out onto nothing but the wall of the building across the way. But it was clean and warm. I showered and rested a while.
That night, I went alone to a bistro—a place on a side street in the Latin Quarter, the kind frequented by locals. The menu was handwritten on a chalkboard. Boeuf bourguignon—beef braised in red wine. The potatoes alongside were tender, the meat falling apart at the touch of a fork. I ate slowly, tilting a glass of wine. At the next table, an elderly couple dined quietly.
When I left, nighttime Paris was still. The streetlamps lit the wet cobblestones, making them gleam. At some point, a light rain had fallen. I turned up my coat collar and walked toward the hotel. Around each corner, a new scene appeared. A bakery window display, a closed bookshop, the warm glow of a café.
Back in my room, I opened the window just a crack. Cold air drifted in, along with the distant sound of cars and someone’s laughter. I lay on the bed, turning over the day in my mind. Not even twelve hours since arriving in Paris, yet it felt as if I had been here for days.
Day 2: Between Beauty and the Ordinary
In the morning, I bought a croissant from a nearby boulangerie. Fresh from the oven, it gave off the scent of butter just from holding it. I added a pain au chocolat and carried the paper bag to a café. An espresso, a bite of pastry—crisp on the outside, soft within. Could there be a better breakfast?
I spent the morning at the Musée d’Orsay. Walking along the Seine, I reached the building that was once a train station. It was just after opening, so the crowds were thin. The museum is famous for its Impressionist collection, but the first painting I sought was Millet’s “The Gleaners.” The bent figures of the peasant women, the low horizon. I stood before the canvas, unable to move.
Monet’s series, Renoir’s light, Degas’s dancers. I took my time with each. On the fifth floor, I stood before the great clock and gazed through the glass at the hill of Montmartre. The white Sacré-Cœur Basilica floated beneath the overcast sky.
Past noon, I left the museum and walked along the Seine. The green boxes of the bouquinistes—the riverside booksellers—lined the quay. Old maps, prints, leather-bound books. When my eyes met a shopkeeper’s, he gave a slight nod. I bought nothing, but simply browsing the boxes was a pleasure.
For lunch, I ventured to the Marais district for falafel. Rue des Rosiers, known as the Jewish quarter, is lined with Middle Eastern restaurants. Freshly fried chickpea fritters, crisp vegetables, tahini sauce—all wrapped in pita bread. I ate as I walked, sauce dripping onto my hands. It was delicious, and I was happy.
The afternoon was spent wandering the Marais. I strolled through the arcades of the Place des Vosges, admiring old aristocratic mansions. I traced Paris’s history at the Musée Carnavalet and peeked into small galleries. This neighborhood preserves echoes of the seventeenth century while contemporary boutiques and cafés nestle alongside. Old and new together. Perhaps the charm of Paris lies in this coexistence.
To rest my tired feet, I stopped at a café in the Marais for tarte Tatin and café crème. The caramelized apples, sweet and tart. The creamy gentleness of the café crème. Outside the window, dusk was approaching.
That evening, I decided to go to Montmartre. I took the Métro to Abbesses station and began climbing the hill. I paused at the “Wall of Love,” reading “I love you” written in languages from around the world. By the time I reached the front of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, it was fully dark.
I sat on the steps and looked down at the Paris night. Countless lights spread out below, and in the distance, the Eiffel Tower glowed. A cold wind stung my cheeks. But I didn’t want to leave. Others sat nearby, gazing at the same view. No one spoke. We simply shared the scene.
Walking down the back streets of Montmartre, I found a small bistro bustling with locals. I ordered confit de canard—duck confit. The skin crisp, the meat tender, the rich fat spreading across my palate. Gratin dauphinois came on the side, its layers of cream and potato perfect.
I sipped wine and savored the meal slowly. From the kitchen came the clatter of plates, the chef’s voice. At nearby tables, guests chatted. I was alone, but not lonely. I had a place in this space.
I returned to the hotel by Métro. In the train car, I scrolled through the day’s photographs. Paintings in the museum, the Seine, alleyways in the Marais, the Montmartre night view. But what stayed with me most were the moments I hadn’t photographed. The contentment of eating falafel while walking, the relief of resting at the café, the stillness while gazing at the night view.
Day 3: A Morning of Farewell, A Memory That Lingers
I woke early on the last day. My final morning in Paris. I packed my bag and prepared to check out. But my flight wasn’t until evening; I still had time.
I bought breakfast from the same boulangerie and ate it on a bench along the Seine. Morning light shimmered on the water. A Bateau-Mouche glided past in silence. I bit into my croissant, trying to fix this scene in my memory.
I left my luggage at the hotel and set out for a last walk. My destination was the Panthéon. Standing on a hill near the Sorbonne, this neoclassical building is where France’s great figures rest. Voltaire, Rousseau, Hugo, Marie Curie. Wandering the underground crypts, I imagined the Paris they had known.
Leaving the Panthéon, I descended the slope of Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. Along the way, I stepped into a small bookshop. Amid shelves of French titles, I bought a volume of poetry in English translation. I wanted to carry words home as a memento of Paris.
For lunch, I chose Café de Flore—the one I had passed on the first day. I allowed myself this indulgence, since it was the end. A croque-monsieur and salad. Tourist prices, but the taste was genuine. At the next table, American tourists talked excitedly. Had I been like that two days ago? Now, I felt I belonged to this city a little more.
In the afternoon, I collected my luggage from the hotel. Before heading to the airport, I walked along the Seine one last time. I crossed the Pont Neuf to the Île de la Cité. I stopped once more before Notre-Dame. When the restoration is complete, I want to return. That is what I thought.
On my way to the RER station, I passed a small flower shop. Blooms of every color lined the storefront, their sweet fragrance drifting out. I thought of buying a single rose but decided it wouldn’t survive the journey to the airport. I kept only the scent in my memory and hurried on.
On the train, watching the scenery outside the window, I thought: two nights, three days. Only three days. I had seen only a fraction of Paris. I hadn’t been to the Louvre. I hadn’t climbed the Eiffel Tower. I hadn’t gone to Versailles or Giverny.
And yet, I felt I had gained something. Not a checklist of landmarks. The scent of a morning croissant. The bitterness of a café espresso. The feel of cobblestones underfoot. The cold wind off the Seine. The warmth of a bistro. The night view from Montmartre. And the quiet freedom of traveling alone.
At the airport, I checked in. On the way to my gate, I bought French soap at a duty-free shop. Lavender-scented. Each time I use it after returning home, I will think of Paris.
The plane lifted off, and through the window, Paris grew small. I could see the bend of the Seine. I had walked along that river. I had eaten breakfast in that café, seen paintings in that museum, climbed that hill. Points on a map became paths walked, became memories.
The Certainty Within Imagination
This journey never actually happened. It was three fictional days spun from fingers on a keyboard. Yet as I wrote, I felt that these places truly exist, that these experiences are possible.
The cobblestones of Paris are truly cold, croissants truly fragrant, and the Seine still flows quietly on. Someone today is standing before Notre-Dame, gazing at Impressionist paintings in the Musée d’Orsay, watching the night view from Montmartre.
Even an imaginary journey can touch the essence of a place. Reading sources, looking at photographs, letting imagination work. The story woven this way is not a lie. It is a “possibility.” Perhaps, when someday I truly visit, this imagined journey will serve as a guide.
Travel is not only the movement from place to place. It is the heart stirring, feeling, remembering. Even if it unfolds only in imagination, I believe something real has been experienced. The air of the city called Paris, the flow of time, the rhythm of people’s lives.
Will the day ever come when I truly walk those cobblestones? Perhaps not. But this imaginary journey exists within me, undeniably. That, I think, is enough.
