From Istanbul to Paris: On Leaving, Arriving, and Starting Over | Wherelse 003

Wherelse is the Living Guide to Living Good: We're back in Paris!

In This Issue:

📝 From my Table at the Sidewalk Café
✈️ How to Leave a City
🎶 Now Playing: Bill Evans
🗺️ How to Have a Perfect Weekend in Paris
📍 Next Week in Wherelse

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From my Table at the Sidewalk Café:
It’s Tour de France Sunday! Paris is barricaded, blocked off, and emptied out in anticipation of the final stage.

Rather than watching from Au Rêve, my favorite little café at the base of my street, I’m having lunch with friends at Café du Canal, playing chess, and watching the dancers — who, as dancers do — keep dancing despite the rain, as I sit sheltered beneath an awning at Le Nemours in Place Colette.

I’ve had Paris on the brain for months. It feels good to be back in the city I don’t live in, but always return to when I feel homesick.

This week’s Wherelse is about departures, arrivals, and how to spend the perfect weekend in the only city that feels like home.

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How to Leave a City

Notes on Leaving Istanbul after a six-week stay in a new place. The culmination of three months of Exile.

There’s a right and a wrong time to leave a place.

The trick is to leave while you still love it — like Cairo. I left wanting more, and now I can’t wait to go back. But Istanbul has dried me up, I’m afraid. I stayed out past my bedtime, and I feel it in my body.

Whenever I’m halfway through eating a really good sandwich, I catch myself thinking, wow, I could go for an entire other sandwich right now. As if I’m not currently enjoying the one I have. That’s just called “being halfway through eating a sandwich”. And by the time I do finish, I’m often perfectly satisfied.

It’s like the ideal hike, not that I’m a big outdoorsman. You walk until you’re half-tired, then turn back. Most people walk until they’re tired, forgetting that there’s still a walk back to where you started. I tend to do the same — I walk too far, order too many sandwiches, and linger a little long.

And yet, it’s time to leave Istanbul. I’m at the Bookbar, a new favorite corner café in Cihangir, where orchestral music spills out onto the street like a blanket in summertime. A street cat curls up beside me — totally uninvited, but not unwelcome. Today, I let him stay.

I trace my steps, city by city, trying to make sense of the blur. It feels like I spent as much time in Tangier as I did in Istanbul, even though the math disagrees. I think about Ahmed and Ahmed, my favorite shopkeepers in Tangier’s medina, and wonder if they remember me — or if I’m just another face in a lifelong parade of tourists who pass through but never buy.

Istanbul, Cairo, Tangier— these cities could have been settlements on alien worlds a few months ago — now they are anything but. They’ll always be homes for me, made familiar by the very act of witnessing — of presence. I can comfortably navigate the Medina and the Khan Al Khalili.

The first time I saw a Yu-Gi-Oh card when I was five years old (throwback!!), it looked indecipherable, like hieroglyphics. I remember looking at it and thinking “wow, what a silly thing”. A year later, I was super duper into that stuff, and I understood all the cards at a glance; I knew what was what and what all the little symbols and things meant. I can still conceptually hold both realities in my head — it’s the same card. But by familiarizing myself, it became something else.

Cities are that way, too. I still remember when Istanbul was this massive potential question mark. A city that could be anything. Kinda scary, kinda exciting. Now, its streets are as familiar as Santa Monica or the West Village.

Familiarity reveals itself through presence.

I can say hello and thank you in Darija, Arabic, French, and Turkish. For 99% of interactions, those are the only words you need. I don’t understand everything I’ve seen, but I get it. I get it now. There’s no good and no bad. There just is what there is and there are ideas for what could be. There is a cat curled up next to me. There could be Zyrtec at my apartment.

And just like that, I’m back in Paris.

Walking down the quiet, tree-lined Avenue Junot. The air is lighter here. I sit for coffee at Au Rêve. The waitress smiles and says, “Comment ça va, mon loup?” My heart softens. I forgot what this felt like.

It occurs to me now: some cities don’t optimize for romance. They don’t need to— Not in the way Paris or even New York does. The restaurants aren’t designed to make you fall in love when everything is fluorescent-lit and easy to clean.

And I’m left with a question I can’t quite shake or crack:

Despite kaleidoscopic blue tiles, aromatically twisty markets, troughs of rainbows of olives and Matisse-worthy sunsets… are some cities simply devoid of romance? Or am I, for the first time in my life, no longer being fed a saccharine Valentine’s Day fantasy by a city performing for my affection?

But this — this moment — is this is the sort of romance I’ve been chasing?

Nothing so flagrant as lovers innocently kissing in the street, but simple kindness. Breathing easy and being seen. And if you’re lucky as I am now, you arrive some place that lets you begin again.

For now, and for tomorrow, Paris is always home.

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Now Playing: Bill Evans

Maybe it’s just because it’s rainy in July. Maybe I’m feeling romantic. Soft, instrumental piano has been in my ears and on my heart lately. I rediscovered this record recently and have had it on first thing every morning. Tunes like these make me want to start taking piano lessons again. Plus— that album art?? Insane.

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How to Have a Perfect Weekend in Paris

Transcribed from my Little Yellow Pocket Notebook

The TL;DR

Saturday:

• Coffee at Au Rêve

• Tartine + Strawberry Jam

• E-bike Ride to Saint-Germain

• Lunch at Café de Flore

• Dancing at Place Colette

• Apéro with a Friend During a Summer Storm

• Long Walk Home in Post-Rain Mist

Sunday:

• Coffee at Home

• Church at the American Cathedral

• Breakfast at La Palette

• Shopping at Le Bon Marché

• Steak Tartare at La Rotonde

• Dinner at Bouillon Pigalle

• Jazz at L’Injuste Pigalle

Saturday

Coffee at Au Rêve — in Paris, our standard breakfast fare of croissants and pain au chocolat often overshadows the humble tartine. A long, thin, baguette like breadthing cut in half and served on a large plate with butter and jam. I sit down in the morning sun and drink café allongé (A long pull of espresso, like a small americano) and get a tartine with strawberry jam in a cute little jar while I write in my notebook.

Bike ride down to Saint Germain — As far as I’m concerned, the only way to get around Paris in the summer is on an e-bike. Lime and Dott have cornered the market and both make fabulous options for getting around. Taxis are expensive, busses are crowded, and the Metro (and city overall) lacks desperately-needed air conditioning. Bikes are everywhere and — most importantly— are SO fun.

Long lunch at Café de Flore — Everyone has strongly held beliefs as to which café is superior between Les Deux Magots and de Flore, the two literary cafés next to each other on the Boulevard Saint Germain. It’s like with American college football teams: allegiance runs deep. I was raised in a family that supports the University of Oklahoma Sooners over the Oklahoma State University Cowboys. I was likewise raised in a family that supports the Café De Flore over the Deux Magots. C’est juste comme ca. I recently ran a poll on my instagram to gauge my followers’ sentiment on the matter. Officially, 88% of my audience agrees that Flore is the better of the two — but when the poll broadened to include an option for “They’re both tourist traps”, that got 40% of the votes.

Lunch is a ham and butter sandwich — a jambon beurre served with potato chips and cornichons, a carafe of water, and a Sanbitter, a bright red non-alcoholic Campar-ish spritz. Delicious.

During lunch, I had the pleasure of visiting with Kimberly and her mom Janey, who is from the same town in Arkansas where my grandfather used to own the local newspaper back in the ‘80s. 5,000-some miles away, the world felt very small that afternoon.

Walk to Place Colette to watch the dancers — I’m sat to write at Le Nemours, the sidewalk cafe on Place Colette, in the 1st arrondissement. Place Colette is alive with music and chatter— it’s sandwiched between La Comedie Française and the Louvre, and sits at the entrance to the always-gorgeous Palais Royal gardens. Le Nemours is a good place to sit in the sun and to people watch with a citron pressé, a sort of DIY lemonade that you can get in any Parisian café. It’s dead simple and remarkably effective: one lemon, squeezed into a glass, a carafe of tap water, and a sugar shaker. Mix to whatever sweet-to-tart ratio you’d like, and enjoy.

Every Saturday and Sunday, without fail, everyone shows up here. Nothing official— no band, posters, or flyers. Someone might start playing a clarinet. Another person lugs out an upright bass, while someone else drags a portable amp across the cobblestones, a mic wired up to a PA. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the afternoon, a dance floor springs up Burning-Man-style and a quasi jazz club blooms beneath the arcades, between the La Civette cigar store and the Colonnes de Buren. Tourists walking by can’t help but turn their heads. Some stop to look — a few get pulled into the action.

I saw a few familiar faces, wrap up my writing, and go say hi. I stay for a few dances, before continuing on down the road.

Apéro and long talk with an old friend — Back in Montmartre, I stop by a friend’s flat and am greeted with a spread of jazz music on the stereo, breads, cheeses, grapes, smoked salmon, avocado, perfect donut peaches, and black coffee. A storm breaks out and we leave the windows open while we chat and catch up.

Long walk home in the post rain mist. Bed. We have a full day tomorrow.

Sunday:

Coffee at home, listening to the rain.

Church service at the American Cathedral — I’ve been getting into going to church lately. I like how it smells, and after spending three months in Islamic countries I’ve developed an interest in the Religions of The World in a new way.

Walk down the river to La Palette — where I met my friend for a late breakfast. We had pain au chocolat, cigarettes, and a café creme. Basically a cappuccino. The waiters at La Palette are notoriously rude, but I still love it here. I’ve been coming since 1999, when my parents spent a year living on Quai Malaquais and I would get pushed here in my poussette.

Walk to Bon Marche — Joined by my friend from earlier, we set out up Rue de Seine, down Saint Germain, and up Rue Dragon towards Sevres-Babylone. I have a small shopping list: I need to get my favorite candle in the world and to restock on the best pens. Over the last few months, all mine have completely dried out. Luckily, the Bon Marché has everything one could ever need and so much more. It’s an architectural and interior-decced masterpiece, and one of those places where I often end up just wandering around, touching, and sticking my nose in things.

The Candle:

Trudon Cire.

Classic, but not overrated. Smells like the fourth grade at my weird Los Angeles Waldorffey school where we would make candles out of rolled sheets of beeswax. Gorgeous, fragrant, and makes me feel like royalty. $58 for 70g, so… I don’t burn it willy nilly or anything.

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The Pens:

Faber-Castell Broadpen Document.

Faber-Castell makes some very fancy pens, but this is not one of them. It’s cheap, plastic, and has a felt tip that I swear is the most gratifying thing I’ve ever written with. I’ve filled up countless notebooks with this and I restock on these every chance I get. I buy enough to leave one in every bag and breast pocket I have, so I’m never without.

Walk to La Rotonde for Tartare, Coca Cola, and a cigar. — On the boulevard Montparnasse, there are a few great brasseries that are expansive, expensive, and inimitable. La Coupole, with its “bar americain” and underground ballroom (more on this later), Le Dome, and La Rotonde, once frequented by the likes of Picasso, Braque, Modigliani, Soutine, Diego Rivera, Zadkine and Gris. You can’t help but feel like you’re in good company.

Home. Nap.

Dinner with friends at Bouillon Pigalle — Not worth the line. Fine food for the price. Skip it if you’re on the fence.

Jazz at L’injuste, run into old friends. — L’injuste is my Sunday staple — it feels intimate, like I’m in someone’s living room and is a window into 1920s Paris. There are as many musicians playing as there are people watching, a near 1:1 ratio. A guy from the audience gets up and starts singing “Nobody’s Sweetheart” from a megaphone and the ratio momentarily tips to favor performers over spectators. The owner of the bar gets on the bartop, sitting, and starts filming. The staff turns into audience, audience into performers, and I get to be in the middle of the city, watching it all.

Walk home. Paris by night — bask in the sodium lamps on the street. Sleep.

Do it all again next week.

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Next Week at Wherelse, we’re looking at thresholds, and at what makes a city great.

Want to read about something I haven’t covered yet? Write me an email! I love love letters.

A Note to New Readers:

Welcome! I’m Jackson Greathouse Fall, an American based in Paris, living on the road. I write stories about the places I go, the people I meet, and how it all fits together.

Wherelse is my handmade weekly dispatch: part travelogue, part love letter, and a guidebook for the emotionally adventurous.

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I write Wherelse as a living guide to living good, for people like us who love life, good stories, and getting lost down small side streets and on sweeping bouelvards. Thanks for being here.

And if you’re still reading, I love you.

Until next week —
On avance!