Not the Paris I Expected
I thought I knew what Paris at Christmas would be like — bustling cafés, glittering lights down every boulevard, champagne in cozy bistros. Some of that happened, of course. But I didn’t expect the memory I’d bring home — one that stayed with me long after the trip ended.
No one tells you this part: Paris shuts down for Christmas. The locals leave to be with family. Restaurants close so the staff can do the same. The city takes a deep breath and goes quiet — almost reverent.
Maybe that’s why it stayed with me. Paris slowed down, and so did I.
A Small Apartment and a Smaller Plan
We rented a tiny apartment in the 7th arrondissement. Cold tile floors, a kitchen the size of a closet, and a distant view of the Eiffel Tower. Somehow that was enough.
It was just the three of us — Marty, my sister, and me. No big holiday plans. No reservations. Just a loose list of Christmas markets and a bottle of Monoprix wine for the evenings.
Markets and Lights
We wandered the Tuileries market with its rides and steaming vin chaud. We browsed handmade ornaments and cheeses near Notre-Dame. In Montmartre, we found a market glowing like a village inside the city.
At night, we walked the Champs-Élysées for the lights, peeked at Galeries Lafayette’s giant tree, and went back to our quiet apartment.
Pork in Paris
On Christmas Eve, I made pork. Not because it was French, but because it was ours. Cuban roots don’t disappear just because the Seine is outside your window.
And the truth is this — no matter where I go, I cook who I am.
That garlicky, slow-cooked pork was my turkey, my centerpiece, my version of home. We ate in that little kitchen, plates balanced on our laps, wine in mismatched glasses, stories and laughter filling the room. The kitchen was the size of a closet, but somehow it still fit the three of us — and a pork roast.
No centerpiece. No matching napkins. Just food doing what it always does for me: gathering people, grounding us, making the moment whole.
The Memory I Didn’t See Coming
Somewhere in that quiet, imperfect evening — the timer beeping in the background, the city hushed around us — I realized this was the Christmas memory I didn’t know I needed.
I had spent years thinking the holidays needed traditions or reservations or a perfect table. They didn’t. They needed the three of us in the same room.
Not the postcard from Paris or the lights. What I really needed was the warmth and presence.
Just us — making a kind of home far from home.
And somehow, that was enough.
