Paris has long been the go-to destination for single women to “find themselves”—the city where heartbreak is soothed by flaky croissants, quiet museums, and ethereal buildings that make you feel like you’ve wandered into a storybook. There’s a peculiar kind of charm to it: the kind that can somehow transform any American newcomer into a more confident, independent, and of course, better dressed version of themselves.
But what is it exactly that draws lonely singles—often with no French vocabulary, no itinerary, and definitely no real plan—to Paris, of all places? Is it the cinematic fantasy we’ve all been fed? The idea that being alone here is somehow more elegant and meaningful than it would be anywhere else? Or is it just the hope that a change in scenery might be what it takes to change the lonely, dissatisfied version of yourself you’ve been trying to outrun?
These were the questions swirling in my head as I was watching yet another fictional iteration of this trope in the Amazon Prime Video series The Summer I Turned Pretty. Belly, the protagonist whose whole identity revolves around whichever guy she’s currently dating, suddenly flees to France for a shot at independence. She doesn’t know the language, let alone a single person. But by the end of her nearly yearlong stay, she emerges steadier and more self-assured, all while sporting that quintessential je ne sais quoi: the red lip, French girl bob, minimalist wardrobe, and mysteriously demure energy.
Watching her escapades, I felt a strange mix of envy and curiosity. I’d gotten out of a five-year relationship earlier this year and walked straight into an identity crisis. (No matter how independent you think you are, breakups have a funny way of making you question everything.) The fantasy of packing a bag and disappearing somewhere unfamiliar sounded medicinal, which is why, when a work trip to Paris landed in my inbox, it felt like fate—my chance to see whether this endlessly romanticized city, which I had never been to, actually held the life-changing potential everyone insisted it did.
Admittedly, Paris didn’t greet me with any movie-montage moments upon my arrival. It felt like just another city at first—gray, a little damp, and underwhelmingly ordinary.
Then, I got an unexpected text.
It was from an old friend—someone who, in many ways, reminded me of myself: a 20-something journalist, once in a long-term relationship, firmly rooted in New York City—which is why I was surprised to learn she’d done what I’d only seen in movies: bought a one-way ticket to France.
