I was newly eighteen. All my child-acting money suddenly mine. Ah, independence!
Carelessly swiping my credit card at In N’ Out burger daily, having just completed my first year of college in Boston, I was grateful to be home in LA for the Summer. I met one of my oldest childhood friends, Jacob, for burgers, excited to buy his meal too, because I could! What a thrill! I inhaled cheese fries sitting across from Jacob as he talked about his overwhelming college application process. Arguably the most multi-talented person I know, and two years younger than me, Jacob was hard at work planning his film school submission, a short film.
He painted his vision for me, “It has to be a perfect movie. And I want you to be my star.”
My mouth watered more for the acting opportunity than for the fries. Less than a year prior, my reputable talent agents had dropped me, uninterested in representing a college kid living on the east coast, no matter how successful I’d been before my decision to leave LA; they didn’t want me on their roster for four cold years. I was heartbroken by their decision, but was also certain the college experience was meant to be part of my story. So, I had no choice but to make room for the heartbreak.
My child-actor friends treated me like the friend who’d lost her mind, assuring me that college was a career death sentence. And they weren’t totally wrong; my precious time in Boston came with a price: a previously unfamiliar, teeny tiny, haunting fear that I’d never get to perform again. A seasoned child actor, truly at a loss, clueless as to how my adulthood would change my life and career. My independence came with a frightening new uncertainty that homed itself in my gut.
All to say, Jacob’s proposition aroused a hungry part of me, “YES. I’ll star. When and where?”
That’s when his voice lowered, “Okay, well…” He fell silent, breaking eye contact, his mouth hanging slightly ajar as he tried to find the words.
I knew Jacob and the communication style of his face well enough to know that this is how a Lucy and Ethel-esque scheme begins.
He then goes, “My dad promised he’d fund any script I write. So I’m thinking I’ll write a script that takes place in Paris. Then he’ll have to send both of us to Paris. He promised.”
Having always been especially sensitive to treating attentive fathers with extra respect, I barked at Jacob, “You brat!” Not because he was one, but because I could never have imagined my own dad promising to help me build a dream. In fact, my dad had actually just declared the opposite to my face. Just before turning eighteen I asked my dad if he’d help me and my mom with college tuition, and he laughed before replying, “No fucking way. Eighteen, you’re not my problem anymore.” The cruelty of his delivery was more heartbreak for me to pack in my Boston bound suitcase.
Dads who doted, like Jacob’s, were miracles to me, “Your dad is generously offering to help make your movie and you’re trying to manipulate him into buying us a European vacation?”
Jacob didn’t flinch, “So you wouldn’t want to go?”
I laughed. He was calling my bluff. He was sneaky, my Jacob. But I tried to stay noble, “Let’s at least think of other, amazing location ideas; we’d still make a great project.”
The very next day, Jacob called me from a cloud, “Honey, he’s in. Wanna go to Paris in exchange for starring in my movie?”
What idiot could say no.
This was half my life ago. But, I still remember the warm chocolate chip cookies on that AirFrance flight, watching I Love Lucy with the night sky, how the flight attendants gave me and Jacob, an 18 year old and a 16 year old, crisp champagne. I could not believe how blessed I was to be treated so fabulously, so limitlessly, with my funniest, most fun friend. My irreplaceable little brother and me literally flying high.
Jacob and I arrived at our hotel in a jet lag’s haze, the gentle morning sun baffling our California retinas like an alien night light. We were told to wait in the lobby while the staff finished preparing our room. In that lobby, Jacob and I sat across from each other dumbfounded in velvety chairs both chiming to each other, “Feels like we’re on another planet.” The exactness of this moment refuses to leave my memories. I attribute this fact to the unforgettable smell of that lobby.
I’m not trying to be extra poetic or dramatic here; the aroma of our hotel changed the course of my entire life. A thick scent of amber, so strong yet welcome, so needy and almighty it could envelop your personality. It coated us and our painfully American clothes as we took in our first tangible impressions of Frenchness.
I’d traveled internationally before, but I couldn’t put my finger on why this trip, this lobby, this moment trying to regain consciousness in that rich, warm smell, felt especially foreign, why I felt especially unfamiliar here. And then, a hotel employee addressed me respectfully, and it dawned on me that he chose to address me over Jacob because I was older. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never traveled without an adult before. I was the adult. My legal age and the hotel employee both suddenly reminding me— the adult was me.
A child no more, a child actor no more, an adult on the other side of the planet, in the most beautifully curated space I’ve ever seen. Upon the epiphany, I scanned that absolutely perfect hotel lobby warming ever single one of my senses: the flowers— red geraniums peppered everywhere, the red curtains accentuating the flowers, the red awnings somehow transforming the delicateness of those red flowers into red fireworks, the French chatter bouncing off the marble floors, the studded plush chairs hammocking my tired frame, the intimate round mirrored tables, and that SCENT. I scanned the space with a new lens, my grown up lens, like I was scanning my independence for the first time, loving every nook and cranny of it, my new kingdom, the Plaza.
Jacob and I spent the next eleven days creating, exploring, laughing til we cried, and, my favorite part, meeting a new element of our pure, honest friendship, all as we toyed with leaving our childhoods behind.
On day two, playing with my new grown-up persona, I walked right into the Prada store and put an $800 bag on my credit card, only to freak out and return it the very next day. You know, grown up stuff!
Half way through our trip, we noticed that our hotel laundry bag was missing, and called the concierge to see if they’d taken it to wash our clothes. The hotel searched for our laundry bag, and apologetically broke the news to us that they couldn’t find it. The bag had seemingly disappeared. Disappointed, Jacob and I listed our now missing clothing items to each other.
“I had a dress and like three pairs of underwear in there. One of them La Perla underwear!”
“My favorite vintage tee was in there. It’s irreplaceable!”
The hotel staff, feeling awful, called us down for a meeting with management. In preparation, to avoid any miscommunication, I wrote an exact list of what items were missing.
A kind man with a long French face and an expensive suit spoke his best English, “We are terribly sorry and we do not understand how this happened. We would like you to shop while you’re here, and bring us the bill for replacing the clothes.”
Those words hung in the air as I tried to make sense of his offer. And his eye contact was only with me, even though Jacob was by my side. I guess being the adult comes with navigating unprecedented scenarios, I thought. But I had no clue how to respond, because I didn’t fully understand how this was all supposed to work. What exactly were they paying for? And how?
Still, I wanted to prove that my big girl pants fit; I feigned confidence, taking the folded paper list out of my pocket, and hesitated before explaining that some of the underwear in our laundry bag wasn’t cheap— a gift from my mom actually, La Perla underwear. I stumbled through the communication, still just a bashful teenager awkwardly describing her expensive underpants to a forty year old European man.
Equally embarrassed, he stopped me. “It’s okay. I understand, and I understand La Perla. We have one in Paris. Gabriel will tell you where to find.”
He gestured to the man behind the concierge desk. I then opened up the list, making sure we were all on the same page about exactly what needed replacing, “We made this list of everything we lost.”
He stopped me again. “No no, Miss. I don’t need this list. Please. Go shopping and bring us the bill. We are so sorry.”
I tried to share the list one last time, but he insisted he never see it, out of sheer chivalry I suppose.
Finally, we politely thanked each other, and the long faced Parisian left us. Jacob then grabbed my wrist, and finally spoke, the words bursting through his teeth, “Do you have any idea what this means?!?? We just got a free shopping spree in PARIS!!!”
I replayed the tormenting regret I’d felt buying that adorable green Prada bag, feeling it was my job to be the more reasonable one, “We should really have him sign off on this list, Jacob. Or have them give us the money first. My mom always says ‘never spend money you don’t have.’”
My big dreamer little brother spoke with the affect of an effective motivational speaker, “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. He refused to see the list! They feel awful! They want us to shop! They want us to bring back the receipts! Let’s GO!”
In less than an hour, Jacob and I had each spent over a thousand euro. The La Perla underwear was quick and easy to replace, but my six year old jersey dress? I didn’t know how to replace it on the chic streets of Paris, so I bought a cashmere sweater that gave me the same “feeling” the dress gave me when I’d first bought it six years ago. Seemed like the only way to “replace” it, right? And Jacob? How was he to replace his irreplaceable, sentimental vintage Tee? We racked our brains, and finally agreed that a brand new pair of black leather Louis Vuitton dress shoes was the only way for him to fill that void. I replaced old socks with thigh-high designer wool ones. You get the picture; we got real creative with the assignment.
Jacob and I skipped past those sparkling red geraniums and into that velvety lobby with our light hearts and heavy shopping bags. What a fucking treat of a day.
CUT TO:
Interior. Lobby of the Plaza. Hours Later.
Jacob and I sat in our prized lobby across from the long faced man and his equally well dressed colleague, as we were smacked in the jaw by the world’s emptiest silence. The two men flipped through our crisp receipts, one by one, becoming visibly more and more horrified as they tallied the total. And it slowly dawned on me and Jacob that… maybe we’d fucked this up.
One of the managers looked up at us over his glasses, “What eez thees one? Shoes of Louis Vuitton?”
It was suddenly hard for me and Jacob to explain our thought process, but also, who the fuck tells two teenagers to shop on their dime without guidelines? Without seeing the list??? Didn’t they know I’d just met my independence like five minutes ago?
I still have those fabulous thigh-high socks. No regrets.
I know the American Girl trying to find herself in Paris is a relentlessly exhausted trope. But also, fuck you guys. Having had the time of my life there, it’s still where I often yearn to be. Sue me and my basicness. It’s where Jacob and I ran off to again four years later when I was fresh off a breakup with my high school sweetheart, needing to find myself once again. This time, Jacob and I crashed on a friend’s sofa. My college roommate Rob was renting a flat in the 17th arrondissement for the Summer. It wasn’t the Plaza. But in most ways, it was better. On that trip, now ages 20 and 22, Jacob and I revisited the Plaza lobby just to get a whiff, appreciating the olfaction’s ability to act as a time machine. And sure enough, on that second trip to Paris, I found my independence again, frolicking along the cooling cobblestone of a Summer’s evening, in heels I never should’ve packed, in grade-A loving company. I reaffirmed my intuition, that Paris was a perfect place for my independence to blossom again. My little escape away from dismissive talent agents, heartbreaking boyfriends and harsh dads— people in my life who normally consumed my every thought and worry. But in Paris, I could barely remember their names.
Now, in my mid-thirties, caring for a toddler, working on my Master’s, trying to keep open faucets on my creative outlets, and making time to enjoy my beautiful marriage, my independence feels like a distant moment, a fleeting adventure I can only recall by writing this essay. I can only remember independence’s airy taste by looking through the many photos we took.
And so I do. I look through the photos often. When I’m overwhelmed by my tasks, my goals, I soothe my mind by mentally placing myself in Paris, wondering if I’ll ever have the luxury of being that carefree again.
(I’m also just noticing, that these trips to Paris were pre- me having an Instagram or TikTok. Hmm. How perfectly present I must’ve been).
Here are some effective ways I’ve kept Paris alive:
My computer background is a photo of that first hotel
I scoured boutiques all over Los Angeles until my nose found a fragrance most like the lobby’s signature scent (now my signature scent).
I successfully convinced all my family and friends to fly to Paris for a few days before our wedding day in Giverny. (I told you that scent changed the course of my entire life!!)
I wonder if laptop screensavers and wedding photos are enough. Am I doing enough to satiate the piece of me always itching to buy that plane ticket? I love my beautiful life in California, in gratitude for my home and family every day. But my life today doesn’t know how to dance easily in step with long trips to Europe. At least not now, not with toddler nap schedules and cat medicine regiments and midterm assignments. I want to be sitting at a Parisian cafe right now, but also, I barely have time to shower.
I turned thirty six last month. Eighteen times two. And on my special day, a Monday this year, my husband and friends all had work, you know, responsibilities, but I happened to have the day off, forcing me to ask myself, What do I really want to do today? The answer was clear: to take my eighteen month old on a walk to the nearest cafe, so that we could split a warm buttery croissant together.
I could’ve watched my baby enjoy that flakey soft pastry for hours. My phone on silent. The palm-sized birds feasting on his plethora of floor crumbs. My baby loves to chirp the word “Cwuh-sahn” between bites, and I do not care how pretentious some might find that pronunciation. He and I walked back home, post treat, and I watched my jolly child use his own two legs the entire trek back, no stroller, his independence opening one eye. I watched his plump cheeks bounce with each step on the pavement. I thought about how his childhood is my new fleeting adventure, and I tried to drink him in. Then, after an hour or so at home, he and I danced around our dining room as I reflected on where I’m at today, at thirty six lucky years, reassuring myself I’m where I’m supposed to be, even if it’s not in Paris. Then, my baby ran to open a window shade. And he hollered and pointed out the window, noticing our friend outside. She was holding red geraniums.
Eden was there to surprise me with a birthday gift; knowing me well, Eden had planted and set up red geraniums outside my door, turning my balcony into the Plaza. I couldn’t believe it. They were perfect. So beautiful, so loving. My kingdom. My home. The life I’ve built for myself, there, now here.
You can miss a lot if you’re always looking behind you. That’s why, later today, in preparation for the New Year, after I’ve doused myself in amber, my husband and I will be purchasing three tickets to Charles de Gaulle.
Veux-tu venir?
♥
Such gorgeous writing! And what a beautiful life you’ve lived! I pine for Paris and all things French these days and you have given me a perfect tart of a present for me with the flu appreciating my lovely Parisian marble fireplace mantel and tv fire in the cold Northeast. I love this!!! ♥️ Merci et oui! Shae
J'aime ton cerveau 🤍 and your writing