France

I fell in love in Paris.

I know, what a cliché – guy goes to Paris, and falls in love. But I couldn’t help it. Falling in love isn’t really something that you do. It’s something that happens to you.

The year was 2008, and this was my first trip ever outside of North America. It was also the first time I had ever travelled on my own, and with my inexperience and terrible planning, I ended up with a 23-hour layover in the French Capital. My budget was too low to pay for a hotel, so my plan was to spend that time at the airport… but after one hour of doing Sudoku, I was bored.

Courageously, I took the train to the city — where I managed to get stuck overnight, because I was under the mistaken impression that Paris was a 24-hour city, with 24-hour trains. Remember, smartphones didn’t exist at that time, so travelling was much more difficult than it is today. Without these modern tools, I wasn’t able to find accommodation that didn’t cost hundreds of Euros. So, I spent the night outside, half-sleeping, freezing, and scared, at the Champ-de-Mars park overlooking the Eiffel Tower — but that’s a story for another day.

Before I got stuck overnight without a hotel, I found myself roaming through the various neighbourhoods of Paris, with a heavy backpack and beautiful shoes that left my feet full of blisters. I walked all over the city, admiring its riverside banks, it’s palaces, and parks. I saw the Eiffel Tower, and the Notre-Dame Cathedral, and I had a subpar coffee with one of the best pain au chocolat I’ve ever tasted. And then, I made it all the way to the Montmartre neighbourhood, and there she was.

Beautiful and grand, tall and statuesque — commanding the attention of everyone around her. She stood there, looking out over a picture-perfect panorama of Paris from the top of the hill of Montmartre. The late afternoon sun reflected off her flawless fair skin, illuminating every one of her features so beautifully, that they seemed to come to life. Her curves, perfectly symmetrical, made to be admired. She was ageless, despite having been 94 years old at the time.

By now you probably have realized, I hope, that I’m speaking about a building. But not just any building: The Sacré-Cœur Basilica, the most beautiful piece of architecture I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It was love at first sight, and from that moment on, I told —half jokingly— to everyone that would listen, that if anyone ever proposed to me, I wanted it to be there, at the Sacré-Cœur.

Fast forward to 2019, more than a decade after I first laid eyes on her, and three visits later. By then, I had been with my partner Eamonn for four years, and we were in the midst of planning a trip to the Balkans when he suggested: “Why don’t we do a stopover in Paris on the way there?” Just a quick one night stop, to see the sights, and visit friends.

“Oh my god,” I thought to myself. “This. is. it!”

To be perfectly honest, I had never really cared about marriage before. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married. I simply didn’t care either way. But at that moment, I actually started to think, “he is the right person, so why not?”

We stayed with our friends, who conveniently lived in the Montmartre district. On our first night, we enjoyed dinner and a couple of bottles of red on the patio of a wine bar with them. The next day, Eamonn and I set off to wander alone. We walked along the cobbled stone streets of Montmartre, through alleys filled with cafés and boulangeries, and finally, to my old Parisian fling: the stunning Sacré-Cœur Basilica, looking as beautiful as she had one decade earlier.

It was the middle of summer and the crowds of tourists were thick around us. Eamonn led the way, as we circled the basilica. This way, then that. We walked down the steps to the bottom of the hill, the Sacré-Cœur looking down at us from its summit, her white domes resplendent under the August sun. Eamonn was clearly looking for the perfect spot to propose. He looked nervous. I was nervous, too, wondering how I should react when the moment finally came — should I act surprised? Should I admit that I was expecting it? Or would an unplanned emotion take over?

After some time, a selfie or 10 later, Eamonn suggested we grab a beer with a side of espresso (the Paris way) at the Café des Deux Moulins, famous for appearing in the film Amélie. We sat at the café, and the whole time, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering when the moment would come. And finally, after paying for our beers (with a side of espresso), Eamonn finally said: “We should get going, we have a train to catch.”

And so, we left Paris —and the Sacré-Cœur— behind. The romanticized idea of our imaginary engagement dissolving as the train pulled further away from the city.

But worry not, dear listeners, because this story has a happy ending.

Less than two weeks later, in Slovenia, we planned a day trip from Lubljana to Lake Bled. After spending the morning walking around the lake, admiring the stunning scenery that surrounded us, Eamonn suggested we hiked up a hill to what he described as a “famous bench.” I was surprised, as I am the more-enthusiastic hiker of the two of us.

It was a hot day, in the mid 30s, when we embarked on an uphill trajectory through a dusty path in search of this bench. The vegetation was too sparse to provide us any shade, but I persevered, unsure of what our final destination was, and completely unaware of what was coming next.

Finally, we got there. The bench: meh. A standard park bench with no redeeming features. But the view. I’m not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever seen, to this day. The expansive Lake Bled below us, with its many shades of turquoise, and blue, and green. An island in the middle of the lake with a church rising from it. The mountains all around us, lush with vegetation, extending as far as the eye could see. And atop one of the mountains, on the opposite side of the lake, a castle. A view taken right out of a fairytale, made all the more beautiful under a blue sky splattered with white cotton clouds, and the love of my life by my side.

We caught our breath from the hike (and lost our breath to the views), and after some time, we sat on the so-called-famous bench. And suddenly, the words fumbled out of Eamonn’s mouth: a not-so-romantic speech that included something about “finalizing the contract” and “this seems as good a time as any.”

In his hands, a silver ring. An Irish Claddagh, with its iconic design featuring two hands, symbolizing friendship. A heart, for love. And a crown, for loyalty.
And around the length of the ring, a Celtic knot, to represent eternity.

I fell in love in Paris, and the Sacré-Cœur will always have a special place in my heart. But nothing could compare to the perfect moment that had me saying a resounding “yes, yes, yes,” before Eamonn could even ask the question.

Okay, so this story takes us back to 2015. I was just 18, still a student at AUB, which is basically the UBC of Beirut, where I’m from. But instead of being half an hour away from downtown, it’s literally in downtown. Picture a university inside Stanley Park.

Back then, I was still closeted — obviously living with my parents — and I used to drive to university every morning. And, like many gay men in the Middle East, I had Grindr. Because let’s be honest, that was the gay community. There were very few queer events or hangouts, just a bar or two… but mainly, a grid of torsos and chaos.

And that’s where I met Julien. French guy, blonde, older. In Beirut for a few days. Very much giving “European tourist with a tote bag and a mysterious backstory.” He told me he was travelling through French-speaking countries writing a book — which, at the time, sounded super fake; but he was still hot, so I didn’t question it.
I tapped him. He tapped me. We chatted. And we decided to meet up for coffee on campus, like respectable homosexuals. I picked him up, gave him a little tour of AUB, and also showed him around the city in my car, which honestly made me feel so cool. Like, I was 18! Driving this charming older French man around Beirut like it was nothing. I was glowing. Walking a little faster. Laughing a little louder. You know the vibe.

That night — the same night we met— he ran into a little problem. His iPhone locked him out. Completely. He kept saying, “I’m sure I’m typing the right code,” but his phone was like, “Nope. Try again in 3 days.” If you know, you know.
So now he’s in Lebanon, with no Google Maps, no contacts, no apps. Not even Grindr. Dark, dark times.
Buying a new phone? Too expensive. Renting one? Is that even a thing? And that’s when I saw my little gay moment to shine — not to impress, but to be useful. I told him, “I actually have a second phone; you can use it while you’re here. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a flex. It was just something I could do… so I did.

Now, everyone I told thought I was absolutely out of my mind.
“He’s going to disappear with your phone.” “It’s a scam.” “He does this in every country.” But honestly? I trusted him. I don’t know why. Maybe I was being naïve. Or maybe I just liked the way he said merci.

We saw each other a couple more times after that. Nothing major (okay, we fooled around a bit). One thing that I remember, that makes me cringe so hard, was this moment when I asked him, very stupidly, if he had downloaded Grindr on the phone. And of course, he had. And I was like, “…oh.”
He explained that Grindr was how he met people when he travelled. At the time, I didn’t really get it. To me, Grindr was still this secret, shameful hookup thing. But now? I mean… most of my friends today? I met them on gay hookup apps.
So… yeah. Julien was ahead of his time; or at least ahead of mine.
Before he left, Julien gave me back the phone and thanked me. Said his trip would’ve been totally different if he hadn’t met me. And that meant something. It made me feel kinda special — like I had made a little mark on someone’s journey.

We kept in touch here and there. He only messaged me in French — partly because his English wasn’t great, and partly because he’d say, “tu dois pratiquer.” Little did I know, my French skills helped me get my PR in Canada 10 years later.
And for a long time, I really thought that was it. A sweet little story. I didn’t expect to see him again.

But then, seven years later, I visited France for the first time. I messaged him, just to say hi. “Hey… I’m coming to Paris.” And he replied immediately: “Let’s meet.”
And just like that, we did. He showed up on a bicycle — of course he did — looking older than I remembered. More silver in his hair. Definitely giving daddy energy. And if you know me, you know that’s very on-brand.

This time, it wasn’t flirty. It was just… really lovely. We spent a few days together, and it honestly felt like picking up a thread from a story I thought had ended. He showed me around Paris like a true local. We vibed, got a little drunk, had the best time. He took me to beautiful theatres, gay bars, this riverside queer spot called Rosa Bonheur — which is basically the Paris version of Birdhouse. If you ever visit, highly recommended.

And on my last day there, we took the train to Versailles to go to a theatre festival — because I’m a theatre gay, obviously. We wandered through the gardens with some strawberries and a bottle of bubbles, because in France, you can literally just crack open a bottle of wine in public, and it’s totally normal. We had this quiet, beautiful day, just the two of us. And I don’t know, there was such a strong connection between us. And if you’re wondering: no, nothing happened. He had a boyfriend, not that this ever stopped anyone. But honestly, nothing needed to. The vibe was there. That was enough.

And of course, the trains back got cancelled. So, we had to navigate this maze of night buses, switching lines, figuring it all out. I would never have made it back alone. So I guess we’re even now: I gave him a phone in Beirut, and he got me home in Paris.
On the way back to Paris — after running around trying to figure out which random village bus was actually going back to the city — we were both exhausted. Sitting there in silence, half-delirious, half-relieved that we even made it onto the right bus.
We both kind of knew this was the last time we’d see each other before I left.

And somewhere between stops, Julien turned to me and said, “By the way… I mentioned you in my book.”
And I was like, “Wait — what book?” I had totally forgotten that he was even an author.
He smiled and said I was one of the memorable friendships he made along the journey of writing it. Just a small mention, nothing dramatic. But still — it really hit me. Like… damn. I actually meant something to this person.

We still talk sometimes. Send each other voice notes. He still corrects my French grammar like it’s his life mission.

And that’s my story. A little Grindr match in Beirut. A train ride from Versailles. A mention in a French linguistics book. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those rare, quiet connections that stick with you — even when you know you probably won’t cross paths again.

Tag: France

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