(Unedited and written high)
I have to preface this with a quick recap of my first ever trip to Paris. I believe I was eleven. It was an elaborate affair for someone from South Africa, especially in the early noughties. It involved visas and connecting flights and currencies and passports and all sorts of grown up things in which I delighted trotting around at my mothers heels, feeling so important that I got to witness the behind the scenes machinations of international travel. It was all very spectacular, and then there was the waiting. If you’ve ever been eleven, you know exactly how I dragged out anticipation. If you’ve been a girl like me, you know that I spent three months planning outfits and practicing different poses and scouring magazines for perfect travel items- whatever gimmicky things I could discuss at recess. And that was just the pre-travel story. I’ve retained my childlike wonder for airports, although the processes are vastly different now. And I can see over the trolley. A little too far over it, but alas, that is maturity. I could go into detail about our adorably quaint apartment. That’s right, we did it before it was cool. And the stench of the European city, which was only a shock because I’m a suburban baby who could always smell the salty sea. I rarely stepped foot in my own city back then, but that was for reasons I’ll get into eventually. I could also amble on about that one morning we chanced upon a make shift carnival, and left the day’s itinerary to the wayside in favour of riding the carousel and the swings and eating macaroons. I suppose I could also talk about the museums and the buildings, but you’ve seen Paris and you know what it is. If you haven’t seen it, you’ve seen pictures. If you haven’t seen pictures, you’ve seen movies. My point is, you know the outline of Paris. This isn’t about that. This is about what lies beneath. Specifically, the best cheese naan you will ever eat.
It must have been three days in, when the inevitable search for Indian food happened. Durban, where I’m from, wasn’t the place to easily find typical Indian food. Yes, we had Durban Indian food. It’s own beast. And I’ll crack a bunny chow any day of the week. Actually, every day of the week. Get at me, bra. But real, proper, British Indian food wasn’t easy. That sweet butter chicken, the fluffy naan. We had our equivalent substitutes, but those were still treats. My dad probably found something on his palm pilot. Yep, that’s where we are in the grand scheme. Palm pilot days. Or maybe he checked a telephone directory. Equally reasonable assumptions. We called ahead to make sure they were halal, and then dropped in. Or maybe that was in London. Perhaps we chanced upon it during our meandering. I forget. I was eleven, or something. But I know for certain that I ordered butter chicken and garlic naan because I always order butter chicken and garlic naan. Well, I always did. These days I’ll go for the vindaloo if I’m feeling adventurous. Now, my dad IS adventurous. But on behalf of his kids. As in, he wouldn’t go out of his way to take a risk on a mediocre meal, but if he saw something interesting on the menu he would take the leap. For the sake of discovery. He’s an engineer so maybe it’s an engineer thing. Or maybe it’s plain curiosity and I’m being too romantic about it. Whatever it is, that’s how the cheese naan ended up in the basket. My mum is going to read this and message me, I guarantee it, to say, ‘are you STILL going on about that cheese naan?’ And I’m going to have to say yes, sorry not sorry. Maybe she ordered it and has regrets. I don’t know! I was eleven or something. And this was the best thing I’d ever tasted in all my living memory. And because she’s probably still reading this, I have to add ‘with exception of my mothers cooking.’ And a bunny. Nothing beats a bunny.
Which brings me back to my most recent trip to Paris. It wasn’t really a trip to Paris, actually. And I know I was twenty-nine during that one. I was en route to Amsterdam from Romania, and there had been a massive snowstorm causing my flight to be grounded in Paris. An hour later, myself and two lovely French ladies found ourselves bundled up in a shuttle to an airport hotel. Their need was more urgent than mine; a grandchild’s wedding in the south of France for them versus a week of writing in coffee shops for me. I’m glad to report that they did, indeed, get a flight out the next day. I, however, was grounded for another two days, at least. So I dug up my Instagram and connected with a girl I had met in Lisbon, who I knew would be in Paris around this time on her trip. I know!! Travel is cool, man.
She ended up securing me the last bed in her hostel dormitory, and after a slow breakfast with my two French babes, a breakfast which involved much gushing and offering of friends and family (bless them), I made my way to Gare du Nord and met her at the McDonalds. Why the McDonalds? I just really love that specific one outside the station. It’s beautiful and brick and old and new and a wonderful combination of nostalgia and corporate greed. I find it fascinating. And during the winter, it’s decked with fairy lights and they serve the best hot chocolate with marshmallows. See, experience is a simple thing really. You do something and you infuse it with your own magic and suddenly it’s the most exciting thing you’ve ever done. Travel is cool, man.
I have to spend a little time talking about this hostel, though. It was stunning. I have no idea what the name is, and I will try my best to remember it at some point, but it was the glorious old school building. The kind you sort of read about in middle grade in every country outside of Europe. You know what I mean? Wrought iron windows, brick older than America, stairs, stairs, a rickety new elevator that fits one, stairs. And then the room, wow. If you’ve seen any movie about hostels, you’ll be suffering from a delusion involving stark white beds, clinical tile and cockroaches. This was more along the lines of red velvet, ornate windows, plush gilded accents sort of Orient Express grandeur. It felt a little like the elephant in the Moulin Rouge, actually. I checked in, received my key and my mimosa and my chocolate strawberry because they really do cater to the travelling millennial at these places. I cannot stress how vital it is that one travels at the right age, that is all ages, that is whenever you can, that is even if it’s just one town over, that is even if it’s just a weekend. Just do it. Even if it sucks, you’ll learn something. But I digress.
Of course, I started telling her about my first trip to Paris. And the cheese naan. My mother is definitely going to roll her eyes at this. Yes, the cheese naan again. Read the title. I am writing a whole post about the cheese naan and it won’t be my last! That’s a promise, mum! Mother. Mama. Mum. Mum. The cheese naan!
This girl, my hero and the daughter of international diplomats and a scary intelligent future engineer or UN ambassador, whipped out her iPhone (haha no palm pilot in this decade) and found the nearest ten Indian restaurants. Then, she called each of them and asked about cheese naan. This entire process drew the interest of the three other inhabitants of the room. You know how this is going to turn out.
But, there’s one other detail. That cheese naan. It wasn’t actually cheese naan. Cheese naan is naan stuffed with a cream cheese mixture before it’s baked. When it’s served, the cheese is mostly dry. I needed the gooey cheese naan. The one that exploded as you ripped it apart. What she found out, in her ten phone calls, is that I wanted raclette naan. Naan with melted raclette cheese, stuffed to the brim and served hot. Only one of those places actually had it. We had no reservations in making our reservation for, you guessed it, five.
We really did have the best time. One of the girls, Brazilian, threw on her Taylor Swift playlist. We danced while we got dressed, taking turns to do our make up at the ridiculously ornate vanity our room provided. Honestly, call me Sateen at this point. It was that good. We linked arms and stormed out, five countries as one. And that was the best cheese naan I’d ever had. In Paris.
