Bopping around Europe at a Breakneck Pace

A few weeks ago, Emmett and I went on a whirlwind European adventure: nine days, five flights, four countries (and no kids!) 

We went to Montenegro for a wedding.

To Dubrovnik because it’s close to Montenegro and looked beautiful.

To Rome because a long layover there cost even less than a direct flight home.

And to Paris because it’s my second favorite city – the only place other than New York onto which I’ve projected all my romantic notions of what makes life meaningful, interesting, and worth living (no pressure, Paris!)

We started in Paris, and I landed with greeting-a-loved-one-at-the-airport energy. I was hyped. Brimming with anticipation. I expected so much.

Paris, of course, didn’t care about meeting those expectations. It was drizzly and grey. The wine bars were too crammed to comfortably stand in. The famous bistros didn’t dazzle. The bookstores were often closed. Our hotel room was Ace-Hotel-in-Nomad tiny. And yet, it was still Paris. 

Even when the steak is sinewy, the vibes are immaculate.

Even when Merci is crawling with people, it’s still my forever-and-ever favorite store.

Even when the vintage shops don’t deign to open until 2:30pm, they yield Alaia skirts and Ferragamo bags for less than 200 euros.

And it’s perhaps the only place on earth made more atmospheric by the rain.

Next, we went to Kotor Bay, Montenegro, the sleeper hit of our trip. In stark contrast to Paris – a city leaden by a lifetime of memories and associations – my knowledge of Kotor Bay was Google-search-shallow. I knew only that it looked a little like Lake-Como-meets-Greece, that it was low-key but gaining tourist traction fast , and that one of Emmett’s oldest friends would be getting married there.

We spent just two days in Montenegro, but we made the most of it. We toured caverns and caves on a speedboat helmed by a guide we dubbed ‘Baltic Justin Bieber.’ He bounced along giant choppy waves like it was nothing, his Simpsons sweatshirt billowing behind him, bragging about being bold enough to take us places other boat operators didn’t have the nerve to go. We swam in water so salty it dried in crusty whorls along our limbs. We visited Perast, where we climbed a gorgeous clocktower so old it felt like it might crumble at any moment. We wandered around a modern marina that looked like it could have been in Monaco rather than Montenegro. We watched Emmett’s friend get married at the end of a long dock amid a jewel-toned bay, his wife’s veil billowing cinematically through the air as they declared their love for each other.

Then, the next day, we drove to Croatia, where we spent two and a half days in Dubrovnik. We stayed in Old Town, which was a mistake: even in the off-season and years after peak Game of Thrones frenzy, it’s so overrun with tourists that it feels more like a Disney-fied medieval town than an actual one. We quickly got outside the city’s walls – we walked to Dance Beach, ambled around Lapad, and took a boat trip to the Elaphiti Islands – and while we saw so many beautiful places and things, we never managed to truly get beneath the area’s slick tourism surface before it was time to get on the next plane.

Then, finally, Rome, for a whirlwind 12-hour layover. 

What a wonderful surprise those 12 hours were. I’d been to Rome once before, with Emmett, during the heady summer when we met and fell in love. It was too hot, too crowded, too touristy, too … Dubrovnik-y, and I mentally filed it away under ‘overrated cities’ alongside Munich, Venice, and Barcelona (eager to be proven wrong about Barcelona, BTW!)

But the Rome we came back to this time around felt entirely different. We wandered Via Margutta, perhaps the most picturesque street on earth. We stared up in awe at the Galleria Sciarra, the Jesuit Church of Saint Ignazio, and the Spanish Steps. We ate so much incredible food. It wasn’t enough time, not even close, and we boarded our flight back to New York full of “damn I wish we’d been able to stay longer” yearning. 

But life, of course, rushes back. The home to return to. The work to be done. The kids to fold into your arms, making you promise yourself: next time, we’ll bring them along for the ride.