It was the end of the college year when he asked me out. I had just gotten out of a terrible relationship, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to get into a new one — or even worse, treat my dear friend as a rebound. I definitely liked him (and the feeling was mutual), but I was hesitant to trust my feelings.
So I decided to be honest. I told him I wasn’t sure yet, and that I needed some time to think. I was on the brink of a summer studying abroad in Barcelona, and he would be studying abroad in France — we would be apart, exploring new places and making new friends, and I thought this is a perfect time to objectively decide whether or not I wanted to date him. I asked for the whole summer to make a decision. Perfect.
But it turned out that we ended up seeing each other a lot — over half the weekends that summer. As for me getting away and having thoughts to myself? That was laughable — we met up in Berlin, Madrid, Switzerland, London.
And then there was Paris. Seriously? The city of love?
I was convinced that the universe was conspiring to sway my heart in a certain direction, because it was just too coincidental. We were alone in the AirBnb he’d booked, which was tiny one-bedroom space with no other furniture and dim lighting. We walked the streets of Paris together every day, caught the sunrise from the crest of the hill at Sacré-Cœur, played in the water fountains at the Louvre, and strolled down Avenue des Champs-Élysées with the sun setting behind us. It was like an episode straight out of a Korean drama.
The peak came one night we were set to visit the Eiffel Tower. I was obsessed with how the lights sparkled at night, and he promised that the observation deck was one of the most beautiful places to see the city. We booked our tickets online, hopped in a cab, and made our way to the bottom of the swooping wrought iron goddess that looked like a web of glittering diamonds in the black sky. We were walking towards where the elevator queue was when I stopped, confused. There didn’t seem to be any people in line, or even under the tower. The elevator was empty. We both looked around — no one seemed to be going up or down the tower at all.
“Um, I think it’s closed,” I said, bewildered.
He made a quick check with the nearest manned kiosk and the cashier confirmed that indeed, the Eiffel Tower was closed because the workers were on strike! (I wish I knew back then how often the French were on strike, because it seems to happen all the time.) I tried to swallow my disappointment. It was our last day in Paris, and I knew I wasn’t going to have the opportunity to come here again — at least, not for a long, long time.
He looked at me with concern. “I’m sorry. Should we go back…?”
I looked around for a moment, and then turned my head up. Somehow, I didn’t want to leave just yet.
“Actually, can we stay for a while?”
I led him to the middle of the plaza, where amidst the quiet hum of the few pedestrians I lay down on the ground, folding my arms under my head and gazing straight upwards. He followed suit, curious. We were lying directly underneath the belly of the tower, and my vision was filled with a kaleidoscopic nest of shining gold lights that seemed to stretch into infinity. The breadth of the tower was so great that even in my peripherals, all I could see was the clean arches of wrought iron and the hourly shimmering speckles framed against a lovely black velvet sky, like staring into a treasure chest full of bejeweled embers.
I shifted so I was lying with my head on his stomach, captivated by the lights and overwhelmed with the pure beauty of the space. I wondered what it would be like, to visit here if he were my boyfriend, to kiss him under the shower of light in what was supposed to be the most romantic city in the world. I couldn’t see his face, but I was wondering if he was thinking the same things, envisioning the same scenes. In that moment, I was itching to just tell him that yes, I wanted to be together.
I got to learn a little bit more that night. Yes, I felt like since I was in the perfect romantic place, with the perfect guy, with the perfect scenery, that I needed to say something. I thought that because it was Paris, I was somehow obligated by the rom-com gods to confess my feelings right there, and then share a passionate kiss with him under the Eiffel Tower’s sparkling lights.
But you know what? I didn’t. Somehow, entranced by the Iron Lady, I fell asleep, and it was the best accident that I ever had. I didn’t tell him that I wanted to go out while we were still in Europe, the same resolve I’d given myself before we left the U.S., because I wasn’t ready at that time — glittery Paris lights and all. When I did tell him that I had made up my mind and wanted to date, a month or so later, I was able to do it on my own terms, in an unassuming corner of our decidedly unromantic campus back in the States. I didn’t have to struggle with the uncertainty of whether or not I’d made the right decision in the heat of the moment; I was able to use not just my heart, but also my mind, to come to my own conclusions.
Paris isn’t the city of love. It’s a beautiful place filled with lights and culture, yes, but as I learned, it’s much more than a romantic backdrop to bring couples together. Next time, come for the beautiful tower arched in the night sky, but save the confession for later. Heaven knows that Paris has seen enough of those.
