This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at NYU chapter.
It was Thursday night and I couldn’t stop looking at the clock.
Nine o’clock.
Ten o’clock.
Eleven o’clock.
Midnight.
Something was wrong. Three of my friends were on their way to visit me— they are studying at NYU Madrid and Florence—and they were two hours late. I’ve yet to go on any weekend trips and so the French aeroports are a mystery to me. I tried to give them the most detailed directions possible but what if they were taken? Or what if the taxi got lost? Can they call me? Do they even have my French number? I was praying that I wouldn’t have to find three lost Americans in Paris when finally I heard my doorbell ring. There they were, three of my best friends from New York standing outside my apartment door. With their messy hair and smeared makeup, suitcases in tow and weary from a day of travel, they were just what I needed. Yelping and shrieking and hugging and laughing and dancing ensued. Once we finally got to bed after sharing funny, sad, scary, and embarrassing abroad stories– which shall not ever be repeated–we drifted off to sleep and dreamed of macaroons and croissants.
In the morning it was go time. Two of my three friends had never been to Paris before and were set on doing the typical tourist routine. As hostess, I had to abide by my guests requests, but I tried to find ways to check off all the monuments on their list while also giving them a little taste of a local Parisian experience. Nonetheless, day one was pure tourism. Starting with the Louvre, walking across the Seine to the Musee D’Orsay, walking back across the Seine to Notre Dame, and taking the metro to Centre Pompidou, we made it to the Eiffel Tower just as it began to glitter in the Paris night sky. Day two we managed to skip the monuments and instead wandered through the Marais, eating at my favorite bakery (recommended to me by a new Parisian friend), and stopping in the many boutiques hidden on cobblestoned side streets.
It was during le nuit, however, when I was really able to show them the Paris that I am falling in love with. Both evenings started at my apartment with a wheel of Brie cheese, a fresh baguette, and everyone’s favorite two-euro bottle of wine. We went to a Mexican speakeasy before finding an underground club overflowing with French locals belting dirty American rap lyrics, and managed to just barely catch the last metro with our new friends Fafa and Wawa (yes, that is indeed how they introduced themselves to us) who bought us all Nutella crepes. When we weren’t with Fafa and Wawa (gosh those names are just so fun to type), we were enjoying steak frites and dancing on tables at a club on the border of the Seine. Before passing out in my bed on their last night in the city of lights, my friends thanked me for showing them not just the Paris they came to see, but the one that they never even knew existed.
To be a local in a city or town is a coveted title. The locals know the history, the quirks, and the culture, of their…well…location. Being a local demands respect, because to become one, it takes time. It may be a lengthy process, but I’ve found that it is one that can occur multiple times. This weekend, I managed to trick my friends into thinking that my measly five weeks here have turned me into a knowledgeable local. Though I may have acted like I knew how to get from the Île de la Cité home without looking at my metro map, this weekend I discovered that I actually am well on my way to adding Parisienne to my quiver of localities.