A Toast to 50 in France: A Laid-Back Birthday Escape
Les Bouquinistes, Paris
If Eat, Pray, Love taught us anything, it's that sometimes the best journeys start with a mess. Ours began with a 24-hour travel delay. Not exactly the champagne-soaked kick-off I’d imagined for my milestone birthday—but like any good plot twist, it only made the chapters that followed that much sweeter.
We landed in Paris on Easter Sunday. It was our seventh trip to France, which granted us the literary equivalent of rereading a favorite novel—you know the plot, so now you can savor the prose. We dropped our bags in the 1st arrondissement and set off to stretch our legs, only to be promptly soaked by a classic Parisian rainstorm. Ducking into a café for an overpriced, lukewarm glass of wine, I thought: Hemingway would’ve called this character building.
That night’s dinner detour led us to Poulette Restaurant—no chicken on the menu, ironically, but steak frites and strong cocktails more than made up for the holiday closure of our beloved falafel shop. A reminder that, much like in life and literature, Plan B is often where the real magic happens.
Loire Valley: Castles, Caves & Cheese
The next morning, we headed for Amboise, the kind of storybook town that makes you want to quote The Little Prince and believe in magic again. Our Airbnb? A bonafide troglodyte cave dwelling. Think The Flintstones meets Under the Tuscan Sun. Cozy, charming, and perfectly suited for sipping wine on a patio carved into rock.
Amboise delighted with its riverside walks and medieval nooks, but the star of this chapter was Chenonceau—a chateau that straddles the River Cher like it was lifted from a fairytale. Once home to Diane de Poitiers and later Catherine de Medici (hello, royal drama worthy of a Phillipa Gregory novel), it’s a place where you can practically hear the whisper of courtly intrigue through the arches of its grand gallery.
Afterward, we toasted with a tasting at Les Caves du Père Auguste—troglodyte cellars, again, because clearly The Secret Garden isn't the only one with hidden magic.
Another day took us to Château de Chambord, that Renaissance fever dream of spires and symmetry, followed by a rain-soaked but cozy lunch in Blois
Along the way, Ray—resident souvenir sleuth—was on a mission: to find a pressed penny machine. Sadly, not even the region’s fairytale vibes could conjure one. What did he find instead? Yet another surprise rainstorm. Coincidence? Doubtful. We're calling it character development.
Detours, Dijon & A Dash of Rain
On our way to Dijon, we took a literary detour to Vézelay, inspired by The Paris Novel by Ruth Reichl. The hilltop Basilique Sainte-Marie-Madeleine stood in quiet grandeur—part spiritual haven, part history museum, and a perfect stop for anyone who believes travel and literature go hand in hand.
Then came Dijon. If this trip were a novel, Dijon would be the breakout character you didn’t see coming. Elegant, walkable, and buzzing with history, the city enchanted us with its half-timbered houses, vibrant market at Les Halles (designed by Gustave Eiffel, no big deal), and the Parcours de la Chouette—a self-guided owl trail through 22 points of historic interest. Yes, I followed it. No, I didn’t touch the lucky owl with my left hand. Hello? Germs.
But Dijon isn’t just a pretty façade—it’s the gateway to the legendary Burgundy wine region. Just a short drive from the Côte de Nuits and Côte de Beaune, we took a scenic spin through the Route des Grands Crus, stopping for tastings at Philippe Leclerc and Château de Marsannay. The Pinot Noir was exquisite. The pressed pennies? Still elusive.
A Parisian Epilogue
We closed our trip in the Latin Quarter, where every cobbled street seemed haunted by literary ghosts. Our Airbnb sat on Rue Mouffetard, a street older than many of the novels on our bookshelves. Around the corner? The Pantheon. Down the street? Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, of Midnight in Paris fame. Cue swooning.
Despite repeated attempts, we never caught Shakespeare & Company open. But the irony felt appropriate—some stories are meant to remain a little elusive. We did, however, sip cocktails at Hemingway’s Bar, browse the bouquinistes along the Seine, and say bonjour to Polène, Sézane, and Le Labo—proof that even bibliophiles need retail therapy.
Final Chapter: What 50 Taught Me
This trip wasn’t about checking off landmarks or packing days full of “must-dos.” It was about slow mornings, long lunches, getting lost, and leaning into la belle vie. It reminded me of what Elizabeth Gilbert wrote: “You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestation of your own blessings.” And honestly? France made it easy.
So here’s to 50. To rainy days, good wine, better stories, and destinations that feel like old friends.
Until next time, France—merci for the memories.
