One Final Punch from Paris

I flew into Paris... Orly Airport. I’d never flown into this airport before.

Very exciting.

Not really.

I quickly figured out how to escape by following the city train signs through the airport until I found the right train to jump aboard.

Well… “quickly” might be generous.

A stretch.

First, I had to buy a ticket... which proved to be slightly more challenging for someone like me... with a very small, non-functioning brain at times. After several moments of staring blankly at the machine, trying to figure out where I was heading to... I eventually chose a destination zone, but to this day, I still don’t think I picked the correct one. 

For as long as I live, I will never understand why tourists are expected to choose transit zones. How the HELL are we supposed to know what zone our hotel is in relative to the airport?

But... off I went, clutching my payment receipt in my hand...

Hold on!

This didn't feel right. How was I supposed to get through the ticket machines and get to my train with only a receipt in my hand? What was going on??? Ok... something was off. I was missing something. A vital piece of the transit puzzle. I was missing an actual ticket! Eventually, I circled back and realized my train ticket was still sitting in the collection tray... a place I hadn’t even bothered to check.

Rookie mistake.

See? Small brain syndrome.

I guess I was lucky I made it back before someone else helped themselves to my ticket. I act all "worldly"... but I'm actually quite a ridiculous traveller.

From there, I took the train to Maison-Blanche and then connected to Les Gobelins station. I was quite chuffed with myself, honestly. I made it! And all with brain fog and a boulder on my back. From there, it was only a short walk to my hotel, the Port Royal.

Paris café culture

Paris café culture

Paris café culture

The hotel was located just beyond the Latin Quarter in a beautiful part of the city, and the woman at reception was absolutely lovely. It was far too early for check-in, so she kindly stored my luggage and pointed me toward a few places she thought I should explore. Funny enough, the main street she recommended was already circled on my map as a must-see: Rue Mouffetard.

Rue Mouffetard is one of the oldest and most atmospheric streets in Paris, winding through the Latin Quarter. Parts of it date back to Roman times, when it formed part of an ancient road leading south out of the city. Today, it’s known for its lively market-street atmosphere. The narrow cobblestone lane is packed with bakeries, cheese shops, wine stores, cafés, produce stands, crêpe spots, and tiny restaurants. It felt so much more local and "village-like" than most of Paris' grand boulevards.

I meandered all the way up Rue Mouffetard... stopping occasionally at cafés, bookstores, and souvenir shops. The thing about Paris is that I could walk forever and never get tired of it. It's my very favourite walking city.

Eventually, I made my way to Shakespeare and Company, probably the most famous bookstore in Paris. Not only that... it is one of the most beloved literary landmarks in the world.

The original shop, opened in 1919 by Sylvia Beach, became a gathering place for legendary writers such as Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and James Joyce. Sylvia Beach even published Ulysses after it had been banned elsewhere. The current version of the store was opened later by George Whitman in 1951 and eventually adopted the same name in tribute to the original.

Inside, it feels wonderfully chaotic and romantic... creaky wooden floors, crowded bookcases, hidden reading nooks, and old typewriters. It’s the kind of bookstore where you walk in intending to browse for ten minutes and lose an hour.

Or two.

The shop is also well known for hosting aspiring writers, “Tumbleweeds,” who can sleep there in exchange for helping around the store and reading a book a day.

I had actually been here once before, but this time I was determined to BUY a book. Usually, the line to get in is ridiculous, but today wasn’t too bad. Not long enough for me to want to walk away, at least. I didn’t have to wait long before I was wandering through the maze of little rooms, taking everything in. Eventually, I settled on a little fictional novel about a girl who moves to Italy and falls in love with an Italian man... much to her family’s horror.

Scandalous.

Truthfully, one of the main reasons I wanted to buy a book there was to get the Shakespeare and Company stamp inside. And yes... I officially got the stamp!

Since I was already nearby, I felt obligated to stroll past Notre-Dame Cathedral. The restoration work is coming along, and it's incredible to see it slowly returning to life after the fire. 

I wandered through Le Marais, one of the city's oldest and most fashionable neighbourhoods. It really blends old and new Paris so perfectly... medieval streets with trendy boutiques, historic bakeries, modern cocktail bars... and tiny cobblestone lanes that somehow always seem to lead to another perfect little café. Of course, I had to stop at many little cafés along the way... for a much-needed and much-deserved French rosé, an Aperol spritz, a wee snack, and to charge my phone. Charge my damn phone. 

Story of my life.

But really... I love Paris café culture.

With the entire day free to explore, I decided to do something a little different... something I’d been thinking about... and actually thought about every time I’d visited Paris, but had never actually done. I decided to walk to Père Lachaise Cemetery to visit Jim Morrison's grave.

Now, don’t get me wrong... I’m not exactly a massive Doors fan… but I used to be. His life and death have always fascinated me, and it seemed like the perfect excuse for a long walk on a beautiful day.

When I arrived at the cemetery, I looked it up online to learn a little more about it before heading in. The first thing I read was that it had opened in 1804... under none other than Napoleon Bonaparte!  My hero!!! 

That immediately elevated the cemetery in my books.

Then I discovered there were TWO other graves there that interested me even more... Oscar Wilde and Édith Piaf. Sorry to all the Doors fans, but Jim Morrison’s grave quickly fell to third place. 

How could I come all the way here and not pay tribute to those legends, too?

The cemetery was ENORMOUS. Actual maps were being handed out at the entrances, complete with road and pathway signs to help guide visitors through the maze of tombs and monuments. Apparently, somewhere between 300,000 and 1 million people are buried there today. I tried navigating the cemetery with Google Maps, which technically... kinda worked… but only just barely. More times than I’d like to admit, I found myself completely turned around, wandering down the wrong paths and backtracking through the labyrinth trying to figure out where I was again.

But I succeeded... eventually.

I found all three graves.

Jim Morrison's and Edith Piaf's graves were covered with flowers, photos, and memorabilia, while Oscar Wilde's grave was very different. It was enormous... dramatic, with its strange design... and completely encased in glass.

It seemed a little odd for a grave, but then I learned why. For years, visitors had covered Oscar Wilde’s tomb with lipstick kisses, love notes, and messages of admiration. Eventually, the constant stream of lipstick actually began damaging the stone, so the cemetery installed a glass barrier around it to protect the monument from Wilde’s very devoted fans.

Grave of Edith Piaf

Grave of Oscar Wilde

Grave of Jim Morrison

"The tomb itself was designed by sculptor Jacob Epstein and features a large winged figure inspired by ancient Assyrian art. The monument is bold, dramatic, and slightly controversial — which feels very fitting for Wilde."

It felt strange standing over the graves of these legends. I knew they were gone... of course... but being so close to their final resting places was a stark reminder that nothing lasts forever. Especially in a colossal graveyard like this one, surrounded by centuries of lives, achievements, and stories... all just reduced to stone markers and names.

Guess it's a big reminder to live life to the fullest. Have no regrets... or, as Édith Piaf famously sang, Non, je ne regrette rien.

I also stopped at the Mauthausen memorial to pay my respects to the victims of one of the most brutal concentration camps operated by Nazi Germany during WWII. Approximately 10,000 French prisoners were deported to Mauthausen, and around half never returned... with an estimated 5,000 dying either at the main camp or in its surrounding camps.

Mauthausen was classified as a “Grade III” camp... essentially reserved for prisoners the Nazis considered beyond rehabilitation: political dissidents, resistance fighters, intellectuals, Jews, Soviet POWs, homosexuals, Romani people, and many others.

The camp became infamous for:

~ forced labour in the granite quarry

~ starvation and disease

~ executions

~ medical abuse

~ extreme physical punishment.

At Père Lachaise Cemetery, the memorial to Mauthausen honours French deportees and victims who were sent there. Many resistance fighters from France died in the camp, which is why its memory is deeply woven into French postwar remembrance culture.

For France, it became symbolic not only of suffering, but also of resistance and martyrdom.

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

George Santayana

To avoid ending on such a sad, sombre note, I should probably mention my final moments in Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Now, I’ve mentioned more than once just how confusing this airport is. It feels like they set a budget and decided signage was the first thing to cut. Maybe they did it purely for the entertainment value of watching exhausted passengers wander around in circles looking for their terminals. They could install cameras and turn it into a reality show.

I was no exception.

But eventually, against all odds, I found my terminal. I found my gate. Everything was finally under control. I decided to grab some lunch before boarding... which, for me, is always a risky move because of my aviation nausea. I have to be very careful about what I eat, knowing there’s a BIG chance I may see it again later.

Anyway, I took about two bites of the veggie pasta I’d bought before realizing it absolutely was not the right choice for me. So I went to throw it out. The problem was that the deli had given me actual metal cutlery. A proper knife and fork. I suppose they assumed I’d eat there instead of carrying it down to my gate, which was about a five+-minute walk away. Of course, I didn’t want to throw perfectly good cutlery in the garbage, so I placed it neatly beside the bin and hoped one of the cleaners would return it to where it came from. I would’ve walked it back myself… but boarding was about to start.

So there I was, bending down beside the trash can, trying to perform my good deed for the environment… when I smashed my face, specifically my left eye socket, directly into the sharp side of the metal corner of the bin.

I saw stars. Actual stars.

It hurt so badly that I just sort of rocked back and forth for a few seconds, trying to gather myself while silently realizing a black eye was inevitable.

So yes… one final punch from CDG before departure.

But after that little moment of violence, the travel gods finally decided I’d suffered enough. I boarded the plane and discovered I had an entire row to myself all the way from Paris to Calgary.

Absolute. SCORE.