The Art of Doing Nothing in Paris
What an emptied-out August city reveals about pace, attention, and resisting productivity.
August is such an interesting time to be in Paris. The city, which usually has a population of roughly 2.2 million, sees half the city empty out as people go on vacation. Storefronts are closed up with signs on the doors announcing their return later in the month.
You won’t really notice this if you only stay in tourist areas as those places usually are open. You have to venture out into the neighborhoods away from the usual hotspots. One of my favorite arrondissements (neighborhoods) to visit when I’m in Paris is the 12th. It feels like a real neighborhood. Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time here and because I usually get the same sublet each time I come, I’ve been able to familiarize myself with the neighborhood. I know where my manicurist is. I’m familiar with the people who work in what would be the NYC equivalent of the bodega. I know where to do laundry. Where to grab a coffee and work. I have my favorite spots at the park to relax and people watch.
In August, the rhythm changes completely. The morning rush doesn’t exist. The metro has seats. You can actually hear birds. The remaining locals move differently. Less purposeful stride, more meandering. They’re the ones who couldn't leave, or chose not to, and there's something almost conspiratorial about sharing the city with them.
Today, I walked to Starbucks and stumbled on a farmers market on a Friday afternoon, something I’m only used to seeing on a Saturday or Sunday. The vendors seemed relaxed, chatting with customers instead of rushing through transactions. A woman surrounded by (what I think she said were her grandchildren) was explaining to me, in very slow, patient French, which peaches were best for eating today versus tomorrow. I bought both kinds.
The guys behind the tables are so jovial and loud, embedded in the community, knowing their customers by name, shouting prices and jokes across the stalls. Here I am with my A2 level French, trying to understand, probably looking completely lost. When I said I’d pay by card - “carte” - one vendor kept loudly asking “Carte Vitale? Carte Vitale?” cracking himself up. Another woman with a kid in a stroller was standing next to me and started helping me (turns out she spoke English). She explained he was joking about me trying to pay with a health insurance card, apparently a height of comedy at the market stalls. I was laughing, telling her how when I’m reading and listening on DuoLingo I'm killing it, but in person I get completely tripped up. She smiled and said, “It’s okay, just keep practicing.”
I walked away with two cases of strawberries, a huge thing of grapes, four peaches, three plums, two mangoes, half a watermelon, two cucumbers, and two peppers. 13 euros. But really, I walked away with something else — that moment of kindness from a stranger who didn’t have to help but did anyway.
The neighborhood is such an eclectic mix of people. Old, young. Professionals. Families, couples. Singles. I find comfort in the constant humming murmur of French being spoken around me like the guy in Starbucks on a call next to me while I write this. I can’t make out what he’s saying because rapid-fire French between locals is nothing like my DuoLingo lessons. But his gestures tell a story. The careful cutting of his ham sandwich (or maybe it’s a croque?), the pause between bites to make a point on the phone, the way he uses his napkin after each sip of iced coffee. There’s a purple donut on his tray too, waiting its turn. He eats slowly, with a knife and fork, chatting away. This deliberate pace of consumption feels like resistance to something, though I’m not sure what.
It reminded me how here you never really see people walking and eating or drinking. At least not the locals. They enjoy sitting down to have this moment. And it made me think about how we are all usually so dialed into our lives that we rarely get the chance to do that.
I’ve found that nothing brings me more joy sometimes than dilly dallying while in Paris. I get dressed and leave out with no agenda. Just curious to see where the day will take me. I venture beyond the usual bounds of the neighborhood I’m familiar with and I’m always surprised by where I’ll end up or what store I’ll see. A shop that only sells buttons, a cafe where older men play chess all afternoon, a courtyard I never noticed before with the most incredible wisteria. What hot guy I may cross paths with at the exact moment we're both trying to figure out if this tiny boulangerie is actually open or just forgot to flip their sign. What stranger might help you navigate a purchase when your French fails you.
Maybe the real art of dilly dallying isn’t something you can teach. It’s just remembering that not every moment needs to be productive. That sometimes the best thing you can do with an afternoon is absolutely nothing in particular. In August, Paris gives you permission for this. The closed shops aren’t an inconvenience, they're an invitation. Go ahead, take your time. Everyone else is.
The guy next to me has finished his sandwich. He’s still on the phone, but he’s packing up now, folding his napkin, gathering his things with the same unhurried effort. Outside, the afternoon stretches on. I have nowhere to be until dinner.
Perfect. ⁂
