13 Sleek and Sexy Ways to Cry in Paris



I’m moving to Paris. This means it’s time to commemorate the occasion in the best way I know: crying about it. This is for you, Paris, the City of Lights, the City of Love, the City of Endless Exasperation. Around here, I’ve discovered as many types of tears as there are croissants, from the happy little sniffle to the desperate wail. 

And so I’ve taken the time to curate a list of the 13 top-tier tears for you to shed once you arrive in France’s beloved capital. It’s the inside scoop. Trust me, this is how the locals lament.



Crash an artsy independent film festival in your best black turtleneck. You’re in no danger of stumbling upon a comedy. Funny is not ‘art.’ You have to want to jump off the top of an Eiffel Tower at the end of a movie for it to be true cinema. 


Make a scene in a packed métro car. Wail, thrash, and gnash your teeth, until every passenger gets off at the next stop. Look at that! All the open seats a person could want. Stretch out and take a nap. You deserve it.


Sometimes you have to snag an Airbnb in a cheap, far-off banlieue, and the Seine is far away. You neither want to walk your feet off, nor battle the métro. Not a problem. Find the nearest patch of grass, dig a divot in the dirt, watch the Notebook, and just let those tears fall. Fill that divot until it’s a trickling stream. Now lay out a blanket, grab a book, and you’ve got yourself a pleasant afternoon on your own private quai.



Befriend the dirty pigeons! Cry in a bowl, then set it beside the rock-hard baguette they’ve been fighting over all day.  Boom. Instant bird bath.


Teach rude Parisians a lesson. If they roll their eyes when you ask for directions, snub your French, or flat-out ignore you, just get to sobbing. Maybe raw human emotion will melt that icy exterior. They have to have hearts in there somewhere. Or maybe they’ll keep walking, and one of the nice Parisians will come to the rescue. Or a fellow tourist will help. Either way, something is bound to happen.


Food hack! Did your baguette go stale in the two seconds it took to walk back from the bakery? Moisten it up real good with your salty tears and pop it in the hot sun for a quick minute. Soft and springy, practically oven-fresh. Cordon Bleu who?


Shower broken in your chambre de bonne? Collect your tears in a kettle, heat it up, and give yourself a sponge bath. Saves on your water bill too. Talk about bougie on a budget.


Just recreate every frame of Rachel Bloom’s “Sexy French Depression.” It says more than this article ever could.


So you’ve spent 84 years in the line at the Louvre, you’re finally past security, and it’s time to feast your eyes on the Mona Lisa. You weave your way past Winged Victory, down a hall of lesser paintings, and there she is–alas! Hidden behind an impenetrable crowd of tourists. Now, cry. Really work yourself up. Turn those beautiful tile floors into a slip n’ slide and wait for the hordes to take a tumble. Voilà. Step over their fallen bodies and get your selfie.


You know what? Just cry. Sometimes you don’t need a dumb sarcastic reason, things get hard and everything costs too much money. I mean sure, the city’s beautiful, but damn. Call me if you need a shoulder. I happen to have two of them.


Donate your tears to the Parisian firefighters. They deserve it, and their stocks have got to be low after saving Notre Dame. Every drop helps. 


I’m just going to say it: sometimes, French cuisine isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. They’re masters of butter and herbs and the freshest of produce, sure, but spices? They’re still working on that. If one day you forget the hot sauce in your bag, salty tears could work in a pinch. Go ahead, cry on your boeuf bourguignon, to give it some zing. Just make sure the restaurant staff don’t see. You’ll absolutely get kicked out.


Try for some happy tears! Go to a lovely museum–I’d suggest seeing Monet’s Water Lilies at l’Orangerie–or to a lovely park–I’d suggest Buttes-Chaumont–and take in the beauty. There you go, a happy sniffle. See? It’s not all bad.

I do, of course, have love in my heart for Paris. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be moving here. Still, sometimes you just take a good hard look at this city and think… pourquoi?


When’s the last time you cried? Come join the sharing circle. I brought weighted blankets.

Happy travels, y’all!

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