Inspired by Homer’s epic, this series explores the journeys that changed our editors’ lives. From conquering fears in Indonesia and postpartum resets in Greece via existential epiphanies in Paris, these are modern odysseys to inspire your next adventure. Here, commerce producer Tamara Southward reflects on a transformative city break.
I remember the first time I stumbled across the dictionary definition of death: “A permanent cessation of all vital functions”, according to Merriam-Webster. The subject has panicked me since. “Hearts stop someday!” my dad once said. It became clear to me then when I heard it out loud: though I’d seen proof of death, I could not accept that it would happen to those closest to me.
It was a trip to Paris – really, three trips over the course of two years – that changed the paralysing nature of my fear. And so, a lunch, a solo dinner, and some midnight Champagne at a 146-year-old brasserie on Saint-Germain helped me reframe my view of death.
Rewind to October 2023. I was in Paris for a fun, girly weekend – late-night dinners of frites and Chartreuse, begging our way into Silencio Club, and wistful walks along the Seine. On our last day, a friend and I booked a table at the iconic Brasserie Lipp for lunch. Although it faces the renowned yet touristy Café de Flore, the stained-mirrored Lipp has retained its old-world feel: the proof being the décor, the waiters (some of whom have been there for 40+ years), the way in which everyone is treated the same, and the menu – which features everything from Parisian classics to historic dishes that hold a small number of devotees.
We were shown to a corner table where we bumped elbows with an elderly man dining alone. He was reading the paper and eating a cassoulet. As we reached for our cutlery, our table neighbour looked up from his newspaper and smiled. “Bon appétit,” he said, flashing a row of bright white teeth. In the middle of lunch, my eyes drifted up the wall to the picture frame above his head. I did a double take. The man was eating directly below a framed photograph of himself, where he was pictured sitting at the same table, clad in the same jacket and thick-framed glasses, with tufts of white-grey hair. My friend and I kicked each other under the table and immediately tried to figure out who he might be (a movie star? A long-beloved regular?). There was something about him I couldn’t put my finger on.
