There are definitely worse places to kill a day than a temperamental and gloomy Paris. On Sunday morning—sick of driving, caffeine-deprived, and mildly resentful that my wife and our Labrador, Hamish, were still somewhere over Newfoundland—I found myself with an entire day to myself in the City of Light. Which, as it turns out, is also the City of Rain. And occasionally, the City of Regretful Umbrella Purchases.
Let me say this right away: I don’t do umbrellas. They are, in my opinion, the sartorial equivalent of giving up. Anyone who’s ever wrestled one open at the precise moment the wind decides to change direction and turn it into a tragic metal tulip will understand. I would rather be soaked, stoic, and dignified. Like a Roman statue. Or a particularly confused tourist.
But that was before my camera got wet.
My companion for the day—my Leica Q2 Monochrom, the Rolls Royce of black-and-white street photography—began to resemble something salvaged from a shipwreck by mid-morning. Now, this is a camera designed for silent observation, poetic light, and solemn architectural lines—not an impromptu shower scene in a French noir remake of Singin’ in the Rain.
So, in a moment of weakness (or perhaps self-preservation), I ducked into one of those splendidly cynical Parisian souvenir shops that sell Eiffel Tower keychains in bulk, striped shirts never once seen on an actual French person, and umbrellas so flimsy they audibly protest when you open them. Ten euros later, I had secured what I can only describe as a deflated nylon mushroom, trimmed in the patriotic colours of blue, white, and red. If dignity had a price tag, it would apparently be €10.99.
Still, I was mobile. Dry-ish. Armed with my now mildly traumatized camera. And entirely unencumbered by any sense of obligation. That’s a dangerous and wonderful thing in Paris. With no museum reservations, dinner bookings, or socially acceptable excuses to wear shorts, I did what any self-respecting struggling writer with a battered umbrella would do: I wandered.
And here's the thing: if you ever want to see Paris without all the, well, Parisians (or worse, tourists dressed as them), I cannot recommend 6:00 a.m. on a rain-drenched Sunday highly enough. It’s like being given a private tour of history’s most aggressively photogenic city.
I began on the Right Bank, which, for those unfamiliar, is exactly the same as the Left Bank except with marginally more confidence and significantly fewer poets. The Seine, swollen and brooding beneath slate skies, curved past in a way that would’ve made even a teetotaling Impressionist reach for the absinthe. The bridges were empty. The usual flocks of influencer couples had yet to arrive with their portable ring lights and choreographed kisses. For a brief, glorious moment, I had Paris to myself.
I drifted over to Île Saint-Louis, which has all the charm of Île de la Cité but fewer people and more bakeries per square meter. If this island were any more adorable, it would require a permit. I paused near a shuttered crêperie, took a few melancholy photos of fog-licked rooftops, and imagined what Hamish would have made of it all. He would, I suspect, have tried to chase a pigeon into the river and then been shocked to discover that the Seine, despite looking like a big communal dog bowl, is not suitable for Labradors.
My attempt to linger around Notre-Dame was somewhat thwarted by scaffolding and large signs reminding me that even ancient cathedrals require hard hats and European Union funding. The skeleton of the cathedral loomed beautifully nonetheless, its damaged spire still in mourning, though you got the sense the old girl was trying her best. I moved on, tugged along by a familiar Parisian impulse: find coffee or die trying.
Which led me, predictably, to the Left Bank and eventually the Luxembourg Gardens—a place so perfectly curated it feels as though it’s constantly awaiting the arrival of a 19th-century duchess. By this time, the rain had moved from “charming drizzle” to “biblical vendetta,” so I did what any weary sinner might: I ducked into church.
Saint-Sulpice, to be precise.
Now, this is a church that knows how to make an entrance. It’s the sort of building that doesn’t whisper spiritual wisdom so much as bellow it through a series of elaborate organs. I arrived just as Mass was beginning and, possibly due to a combination of Catholic guilt and not wanting to walk back out into the heavy rain, I stayed.
I cannot pretend I understood everything—my French, at the best of times, is limited to ordering pastries and pretending to understand wine lists—but I did catch words like paix, esprit, and chocolatine (possibly hallucinated). And the music—oh, the music. A soaring organ that could make the most hardened atheist consider the clergy, accompanied by voices so pure they practically floated. I sat there, steamed gently dry by divine heat and heavenly harmonies, and wondered if perhaps being left behind in Paris wasn’t such a bad fate after all.
Eventually, I emerged, half-converted and fully wrinkled. My umbrella had expired somewhere in the nave. The Leica, still miraculously functioning, seemed to be daring me to try one more alley, one more café window, one more solitary couple holding hands under the weight of old stone buildings and wet sky.
By mid-afternoon, I had managed to purchase several coffees and an indecent number of pastries—strictly in a reconnaissance capacity, of course. Should my wife or my doctor be reading this, please understand that I merely looked at the pastries. I certainly didn’t eat the entire pain aux chocolat from that boulangerie off Rue de Buci. That would be irresponsible. No, I carried it around like a trophy. A flaky, buttery, possibly life-altering trophy.
As the day wore on and the streets slowly filled with other humans—less soggy, better dressed, and considerably more photogenic—I made my way back along the Seine. I passed cafés now buzzing with umbrellas folded at awkward angles, waiters dancing a well-practiced ballet with tiny tables, and dogs in better coats than mine.
I thought about Hamish again—about the joyful chaos that would begin the moment his paws hit Parisian pavement. The sheer number of baguette crusts he’d try to consume. The entirely inappropriate places he’d attempt to nap. The gendarmes he’d charm.
And I realized, standing there with a waterlogged camera and no real plan beyond “find something dry,” that this was perhaps the greatest gift Paris could give: the chance to be entirely purposeless and entirely alive. To be damp, aimless, under-caffeinated—and still believe, if only for a day, that everything beautiful was happening right now, just around the corner, just beyond the bridge.
Photo Note: All images were captured using a Leica Q2 Monochrom Reporter, which somehow survived the experience. No almond croissants were harmed in the making of this blog post (except, perhaps, one. Or three. Look, I said “perhaps.”).
Looking forward to hearing from you in the comments.
Live well!
M.
