In my early 20s, I was fortunate to find myself in a relationship with someone who was offered a contract to work in Paris. So, off to Paris we went.
We were housed in a small fourth-floor walkup above a cosmic-themed hair salon in Le Marais, the city’s gay district, which, in the early 2000s, was much less traveled than it is today. Our front window overlooked Rue Rambuteau, where, below, a fruit stand would open early every morning, staffed by a surly man who would get as hot as a crêpe griddle when potential customers touched the fruit, and, just a block and a half towards the Centre Pompidou, one of the best beignets au chocolat on Earth could be purchased for a couple euros and change.
The apartment was tight, yes, but I would read James Baldwin and Anaïs Nin in the dawn light and feel inspired. For a young writer with only a little bartending money in his pocket, Paris became a spiritual place to waste time. Each morning after coffee by the window, I walked my partner to work in the Saint-Denis neighborhood, which looked and smelled like a cut-rate red light district, then continued on past a beloved stone sculpture of a head and a hand, walking Paris for hours. Neighborhood by neighborhood, getting lost became a drug.
There is a term, dérive, which comes from the Parisian avant-garde. It loosely translates to the English word “drift,” but it encompasses much more. To engage in dérive is to allow oneself to wander aimlessly through a place in an unplanned way. Spontaneity is key. In Paris, dérive became my meditation, taking me to parts of the city I suspect most Parisiens have rarely seen.
I had no phone, only a Paris Pratique book and the maps I’d find outside metro stations to guide me home in the evenings. Paris’ countless must-sees made worthy destinations, but if I set a target for the day, I rarely made it. On a long walk to La Villette in the northeast corner of the city, for example, I stumbled into a quiet, breathtaking corner of Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, where I stopped to journal til after dark.
Getting waylaid like this in a café for an afternoon seemed to happen frequently, but, over the course of some weeks, I sauntered my way through all 20 arrondissements, the psychogeographic effects of these walks forever altering the way I engage with the world.
Once an addict, always an addict, some say. When it comes to dérive, I’ve found this to be true. I’ve since spent long days engaged in the experiment while nibbling my way through New York, New Orleans, Lima, and Amsterdam and drinking hundreds of cups of tea through the steep streets of Istanbul. In San Francisco, I passed countless days following the path of least resistance, letting walk signs at each intersection guide me.
These meanderings may seem pointless when the world holds so much to see and do, but I believe there is an accumulating wisdom in dérive. Life expands when we’re in no hurry at all. And while, yes, today we can pull up a map or call a car faster than we can tie our shoes, my walks through Paris taught me the slow road is the best way through a city.
This issue is our invitation to you to get out and explore San Diego. With a little guidance, our city comes alive in surprising and delicious ways. So, whether you’re down to dive in and dérive through neighborhoods you’ve never explored or simply curious to find something new in a ’hood you’ve long loved, fortune awaits. Consider this your guide.
This post contains affiliate links to products and services. We may receive compensation when you click on links.
