Sara’s abroad in Paris, France, until Dec. 13.

I spent this past Friday night in so I figured I should make the most of yet another gorgeous Paris weekend. It was with this determination that I set out Saturday morning. Most of my friends had to do a French assignment and I can’t say I minded. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to a Saturday morning on my own to walk and wander.

And what did I find? My new favorite place in Paris. A little tiny used bookstore (with books all in English) that I will most certainly be returning to once I finish Eat, Pray, Love again. And the people there? Fellow Americans finding some refuge in this city that they have come to love. These kinds of people that are here for longer than a week because they actually took the time to find the little shop off the beaten track of tourist destinations. Or they saw the flier that I saw on the metal bars encasing one of the many Parisian parks near St. Michel and opted to check it out rather than continue to look for a Fnac – the Borders meets Best Buy of France.

So after spending probably 45 minutes just going through the cluttered alley of a bookstore, I sat down to read Eat, Pray, Love (the book I finally settled on buying because I could only pick one since they didn’t accept credit cards and I’d only brought 15 euros out with me) on the bank of the Seine. The left side. I’ve developed an unfair and totally biased preference to the left. And that’s when I met Antoine. Or, at least that’s what I think his name was.

This seems to be a common trend in my solo adventures across Paris. In Europe at least, it feels like you’re never really alone for very long. I wasn’t really up for entertaining much conversation on this particular bench on this beautiful fall day, which I had decided was to be devoted entirely to doing what I wanted to be doing: a “me-day”, since those are few and far between when you feel the Mid-Point Panic of studying abroad where your type-A American brain reminds you constantly to see as much as possible, go to all the museums and make every moment count.

So, in my battered French I told him it was okay that he share the bench, and moved over. He continued to ask me what I was doing in Paris (studying) how long I’d be there (3 months). I was caught in the middle. Keep up this innocent Fran-glais conversation or go back to reading my book. My mom is the kind of person who meets friends anywhere she goes. Everyone is a potential new friend. I’ve adopted the polar opposite adage – living life with blinders on, not venturing too far into my periphery. For whatever reason, my knee-jerk reaction is to regard strangers on the street as people I will never get to know. Whether this is good and has helped me lead a safer existence or bad and left me sheltered remains to be seen.

But regardless, it became quickly evident that Antoine – who had come down to the Seine, or so he told me, to read his book – wasn’t so interested in reading, but preferred to practice his broken English. So we chatted for a few minutes. I found out he lives just south of the Notre Dame – where we were - and likes to drink wine with his friends on the bank of the Seine and to read on the benches, just as we were now. He asked what I was reading (Eat, Pray, Love in English ) and I saw that he was reading A Midsummer’s Night Dream, also in English.

I tried to explain that I can barely understand Shakespeare in my native language and would imagine it’s a hard reach for a non-native speaker, but I’m not sure how much was lost in translation.

While I could have used the French practice and while I’m sure I could have had a new friend in Antoine, it really was my me-day. So I eventually just went back to reading, enjoying the blurry picture of the Notre Dame that peeked up just above the top of my book. I realized it was morning in Chicago and got my phone out to call my parents, like I usually do on Saturday afternoons and at some point in the conversation, Antoine headed out with an “Au Revoir” and a wave.

As I talked to my mom on the phone, I realized the sun was heading down and my hands were getting a little too close to numb for comfort. I headed to the metro: a successful me-day accomplished. And now I’m here back at home about to take my daily late afternoon nap. In the book that I’m reading the author travels to three different countries throughout the course of the year. In the chapter I just finished before writing this, she muses, “Americans don’t really know how to do nothing”. I’ve found this to be pretty true. I feel a sense of guilt when I spend a day not out really living in Paris, seeing the sights. But I’ve come to think there are some things that are just as important “to dos” as the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Like spending a day out on your own, speaking to the inquisitive French boy that finds you along the river, discovering your new favorite Parisian bookstore and soaking up the smell of autumn. It’s just that the tourist books don’t tell you about the latter one.

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