There’s something undeniably romantic about Paris in the spring. The light is softer, the streets hum with a kind of casual poetry, and even the breeze feels curated—like it’s brushing your cheek just right. I recently spent a week in the City of Light, a mix of work and pleasure, and while I’ve visited before, this trip felt particularly alive. Maybe it was the sunshine, or the company, or maybe it was just Paris doing what Paris does best: seducing you with its charm at every turn.
For starters, this was my first non-winter visit in years, and what a difference a season makes. The parks were exploding with blossoms, toddlers waddled through grass in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and everyone seemed to be outside—reading, kissing, talking, just being. The city had emerged from its chill, and so had its people.
I stayed with a few friends in the 11th arrondissement, in a lovely family apartment that felt lived-in and warm—think mismatched coffee mugs, children’s drawings taped to the fridge, and the occasional squeaky floorboard. It’s a neighborhood that feels more residential than touristy, the kind of place where you hear the clink of dinner plates through open windows and see older couples holding hands on the way to the bakery.
Every day began with coffee—lots of it. Our ritual quickly became something of a running joke. We’d walk two blocks, stop for coffee, then another two blocks, another café. Boot Café in the Marais was one of our favorites: teeny tiny, full of character, and outfitted with the cutest stackable circus stools that made you feel like a kid again. The caffeine, of course, was secondary to the joy of pausing, people-watching, and soaking in the atmosphere.
One morning, we ventured to the 7th arrondissement, near the Eiffel Tower, for a very special visit with Morgane Sézalory, the founder of Sézane. I’ve known her for years, and she graciously invited me to her apartment for breakfast. We sat in her sunlit kitchen with bowls of berries and cups of coffee, her fluffy cat weaving between our feet. The conversation flowed—family, love, heartbreak, aging, turning 40, and the strange sense of peace that sometimes follows panic. It felt like a moment suspended in time, a kind of quiet intimacy that only Paris seems to offer.
Inspired (and honestly, still buzzing from the emotional connection), I wandered over to the Sézane store nearby. Embroidered dresses, slouchy cardigans, perfectly worn-in denim—every rack looked like a love letter to effortless style. I may have walked out with a pair of shoes I didn’t need but absolutely adored.
Afternoons were for exploring. We browsed Merci, a three-story concept shop with everything from minimalist homeware to moody lighting; Bonton, a dreamy children’s store; and Mélodie Graphiques, a stationery shop where I spent far too long debating over pens and paper I’d likely never use but couldn’t resist.
One of the trip’s highlights was a visit to the David Hockney exhibition at the Fondation Louis Vuitton. Walking through room after room of his work, I found myself saying “WOW” aloud like a reflex. His bold colors, his quiet, staring figures, his joyful interpretations of the English countryside—it all landed like a punch to the chest in the best way. My favorite piece, a massive mural-like painting of people at an art show, included a grumpy bulldog who completely stole my heart.
And then there was that lunch at Mokonuts. I’d heard whispers about the place for years, but nothing prepared me for how good it actually was. Owned by the kindest couple, Moko and Omar, the restaurant is only open for lunch and features a short, ever-changing menu. We devoured labneh with pillowy pita, grilled squid, spring peas with pork, and buttery cookies that dissolved like a dream. Conversations meandered—parenting, relationships, business woes, even pillow talk (yes, really)—and laughter bounced around the table like confetti. It was the kind of meal that makes you remember why food is magic.
On our final night, we stayed in. Sometimes, the best way to close a trip is to do absolutely nothing. We grazed on olives, chips, and hunks of cheese, sipped wine, and left the windows open to the city air. We watched a couple episodes of The Four Seasons—a perfect, cozy nod to old-school cinema—and talked about what we’d miss most.
Coming home was bittersweet. My boys were clingy (“You’re never allowed to leave again!”) and jet lag hit hard (“It’s 3 a.m. in Paris!”), but I felt lighter. Recharged. Full of stories and snacks and the glow of good company.
Paris reminded me of what I already knew but had forgotten: there is value in slowing down, in wandering with no agenda, in savoring coffee breaks, in letting conversations get messy and meandering. There’s joy in feeding your senses—be it through food, art, fashion, or even just the scent of spring lilacs on the wind.
And maybe that’s the real gift of travel—not just escape, but return. A return to yourself, a reminder of who you are when you feel free, inspired, and connected.
So, tell me—have you been to Paris? Do you have a favorite city that fills you up in the same way? I’d love to hear your stories. Until then, I’ll be daydreaming of flaky croissants, cozy conversations, and the way the Seine sparkles at dusk.
