Paris has changed. So have I.

Last weekend marked my 7-year Paris-versary (pronounced Pareeversary, in case you were wondering). Seven whole years as a parisienne; seven whole years since I made my teenage pipe dream of living in France a reality. Seven years of grappling with the trials and tribulations of expat life and language barriers and bloody french bureaucracy. Seven years of evenings organised entirely around cheese consumption, and croissants that have brought actual tears to my eyes, and more baguettes than you can shake a French stick at. 

I’ve been reflective about this particular anniversary in a way that I haven’t for any of the others I’ve marked here. It feels more significant somehow — more substantial. Perhaps because it comes at a time in my life that otherwise feels incredibly pivotal; my 30th year has been more chaotic and change-filled than any other I’ve spent in France. Maybe it’s because 30 itself feels like a significant age at which to be having any other kind of anniversary. Or maybe it’s just because 7 is supposed to be a magic number.

Inevitably, in seven years, a lot has changed, both in my life and in my surroundings. A city as old as Paris doesn’t evolve overnight, but it’s not quite the same place it was when I arrived in 2017. At a glance, not much is different: the buildings are largely the same (though cleaner than ever this year thanks to the Olympics), and of course the monuments are mostly unaltered. There are still many of the same boutiques and restaurants that have lined the city’s streets for decades. The Seine is still… the Seine. 

But there are subtle changes. For one thing, the shops are now much more likely to open on Sundays than they were in 2017; a seemingly small cultural shift that I have mixed feelings about, despite the obvious convenience of it. And the traditional French bistros and brasseries have become part of a much more varied food scene than existed when I first arrived — there are far more, far better international offerings now. The coffee shop scene has also exploded, to my absolute delight. As much as I love a little café noisette on a restaurant terrasse, I spent my early years in Paris lamenting the absence of cosier, more dedicated coffee shops, where I could hole up in a corner with my book or my notepad and while away the hours with my hands wrapped around something more substantial than an espresso cup. I got my wish; these days, my only problem is choosing between the abundance of specialist options scattered across the city. 

The City of Light has also become less… lit. During my first few years here, the sight of the Eiffel Tower pitch black against the night sky was a rare one indeed. It was synonymous with staying out all night; with wandering home at 4am, bleary-eyed and giggly after an evening of merry revelry with friends. It was something to remark on. An “oh God, even the tower’s in bed before us.” Not so anymore. Now it only means you’ve made it as far as midnight — thankfully not yet something I consider a feat. It’s much better for the environment of course, as is the decision to stop illuminating the other public buildings and bridges throughout the city all night. But it’s hard not to feel a little sad about it even so. It wasn’t my practical side that drew me to Paris, after all.

On a more (unequivocally) positive note, I think the Parisian people have become noticeably friendlier in public spaces in the last few years. When I initially arrived, my tendencies to smile at anyone I crossed on the street and attempt pleasantries with cashiers were generally met with anything from indifference to confusion to outright suspicion. Then Covid happened and, slowly but surely, the stiffness between strangers started to thaw. It began with the elderly ladies in my neighbourhood, their eyes crinkling at me as they returned my smiles from behind their masks, when we passed on our respective routes to our Essential Activities. And then it was the elderly men too, and then people of all ages, and then not just smiling in the street, but also exchanging asides in the boulangerie queue, and making jokes on the métro, and just generally acknowledging each other’s existences with a warmth that wasn’t often there before. Happily, it’s a change that seems to have stuck post-pandemic.

Naturally, I’ve changed too in the last seven years. I’d hope so, given I was 23 when I arrived in Paris — barely clear of my teenage years. I’m older and (at least a bit) wiser now, experienced in a career I didn’t even know existed when I moved, with skills and hobbies I’d never contemplated trying. I’ve been shaped by the places I’ve travelled to, and the people I’ve met, and the relationships I’ve developed, and the books I’ve read. Helpfully, my French is a LOT better than it was (although the level still fluctuates depending on how much time I have or haven’t been spending on dating apps in any given period). And as much as I still love to get (deliberately) lost in Paris, it’s actually pretty difficult for me to do these days. I know the city too damn well. And it knows me too, or at least my neighbourhood does. I am now known, by face or by name (or by coffee order), by a whole collection of local “commerçants” — the people working in the boutiques and cafés, the grocery shop, the boulangerie, the pharmacy. The artsy assistants in my beloved craft shop. The whiskery old Moroccan selling late-night sustenance from his hole-in-the-wall crêperie. The waiter who waves through the window when I pass the restaurant at the end of my street. The bartender who always comments on how pleased she is to see me when it’s been a while. 

A few things have stayed the same, though. How I feel about Paris has not changed in the slightest. I’m still in awe of this stunning city, still feel extraordinarily lucky to call such a special place “home”, still find it hard to believe that my day-to-day routine can (and often does) include a picnic at the Eiffel Tower or a glass of wine on the banks of the Seine. I’m still living in the first apartment I rented when I moved to France, a place that I adore at least as much now as I did the day I claimed the keys. And, best of all, the friends I made at 23, in those first few months of finding my feet, are still very much among my best friends today. A few more arrived a little later, and some moved on to other places, but those people I’ve considered my Parisian family for almost as long as I’ve lived here have turned out to be the kind of friends you keep for life. 

As I mentioned back at the start, this year has felt (and continues to feel) very pivotal for me. Perhaps this “Parisversary” seems so significant because it coincides with a strong sense of closing out a chapter of my life, and moving into a new one. I don’t yet know exactly what that new chapter’s going to look like (actually, I’ve no idea at all), but I’m hugely excited for the unknown adventures ahead. And, above all, I’m immensely grateful for the incredible experiences I’ve had over the last seven years, living my best and very beautiful vie parisienne — my literal dream.