Travel – Studio Josie

The Italian Dish I Miss Most

A few weeks ago, I caught a nasty cold that had me housebound for a few days. I’ll admit that I’m a bit of a baby when it comes to being sick, so despite it not being Covid, strep, or the flu, I was (and still am) 99% sure it was worse than any cold I’ve had in recent history.

Over the week of my contagion, I consumed lots of ramen and vegetable broth to soothe my throat and offer my blocked nose a bit of relief. These are classic cold comforts, but as I slurped each noodle, I couldn’t help but crave a different comfort food. One that I hadn’t had in months.

It was my friend and former housemate Sabi who introduced me to tortellini in brodo. During our first semester living in Rome, we cooked together almost every night, exchanging recipes and techniques from our respective countries. She’s Italian, so a lot of my knowledge of Italian food comes from her — including how to make a killer tiramisù. And yet, the dish I’m most thankful to have learned about is tortellini in brodo, or, in English, tortellini in broth.

Tortellini hail from Italy’s central food haven, Emilia-Romagna. The region, which sits just above Tuscany and just below Veneto, is known for some of the country’s best, most archetypal foods, including Prosciutto di Parma, Parmigiano Reggiano, and real-deal balsamic vinegar. Bologna, its capital city, is equally as renowned for its food (and its enchanting porticoes). Think ragù alla Bolognese, mortadella, and, yes, tortellini.

The most traditional tortellini bolognesi are filled with Prosciutto di Parma, Parmigiano Reggiano, pork, mortadella, eggs, and nutmeg. However, you’ll find a variety of fillings, such as spinach & ricotta, in both pastifici (pasta shops), and in the grocery store — which is where my love affair with tortellini in brodo began.

Sometime during my first fall in Rome, I was at the grocery store with Sabi and my other housemate, Martina. We were shopping for the week ahead and were at a standstill in the fresh pasta aisle, eyeing the new array of seasonal Giovanni Rana ravioli. From truffle-filled to basil-tinted, we frequently went for Rana’s ravioli, but that day, we decided to change it up and go with tortellini filled with prosciutto crudo.

Giovanni Rana offers two types: sfogliavelo, which are smaller tortellini made with a thinner dough, and sfogliagrezza, which are a bit bigger and have a tougher dough. We went with the tiny sfogliavelo. They take only a minute to cook, and in my opinion, are far superior.

Sabi immediately knew what we were going to do with them. We would plop a few little broth cubes into boiling water and cook the tortellini in it. Then, we’d serve the tortellini and the broth together, sort of like soup. Tortellini in broth; it couldn’t be simpler.

In brodo is the most traditional way to eat tortellini in Bologna. You can find them served in various cheese, cream, or tomato sauces, but if you’re visiting Bologna and want to try a traditional dish, broth is the way to go. Usually, it’s a simple homemade meat broth, but veggie broth is equally acceptable. Regardless, the tortellini are the star of the show; the broth should be flavorful, but it should never overpower the tortellini themselves.

Later that week, when we finally cooked the tortellini, we each spooned some into our bowls and topped it off with some good old Parmigiano. I let it cool for a minute or so before taking my first bite. And then, as I slurped a little tortellino off the spoon, using my teeth to shave off some of the Parmigiano that had congealed and stuck to the metal, I found my Italian comfort food.

From then on, every time I went to the grocery store, whether it was with my housemates or alone, I found myself grabbing a bag or a little single-serve case of tortellini from the shelf. It quickly became an essential, a food I could prepare during my busiest nights that would never let me down. It gave me much-needed energy during my two week-long battle with mono, and it always felt like a healthier alternative to ramen with a side of scrambled eggs, which was a college staple of mine. No matter how much I ate it, tortellini in brodo never got old.

Sometimes, I’d branch out and try a different variety besides Rana. Doc, my favorite grocery store, always carried a fancy, Bologna-based brand I would occasionally splurge on. Every time I bought them, I could taste the difference in quality, and so, after a year of tortellini-eating, I knew I had to try the real stuff.

But finding tortellini in brodo in Bologna is much harder than you might think — at least it was for us.

In October of the following year, Sabi and I took a day trip to Bologna. It was a Sunday, and we took an early-morning train from Rome, arriving in the city around 10 a.m. We had nothing planned, besides climbing the Asinelli tower and finding a restaurant where I could eat tortellini in brodo and she could eat tagliatelle al ragù.

But it was a Sunday, and in Italy, everybody and their mother goes out for lunch on Sunday. So by the time all the trattorie opened up at noon, we found it pretty much impossible to find one that had an empty table.

We frantically searched on Google Maps to find somewhere, anywhere, that looked decent and had the two dishes we were looking for. Each time we found one, though, we arrived to find that there was no space. “Mi dispiace, ragazze!” over and over. We were stressed, but it’s impossible to be too stressed in a city as beautiful as Bologna; as we speed-walked past each pumpkin-colored building, we basked in its charm, our stomachs growing louder by the minute.

Around 2:30, when many of the restaurants were closing up shop, we found a trattoria that was open a little later than most. I didn’t even take note of the name or where, exactly, it was. All that mattered was that they had a table for us. I was too excited to try my beloved comfort food in the city of its origin.

And it was perfect.

Recent Eats: Prague

The food in Prague gets better each time I visit. I haven’t even scratched the surface in terms of the city’s best places to eat, but I’m slowly chipping away at my massive list — especially these days, as I’ll be here for the remainder of June.

Exhibit A is Artic Bakehouse, an Icelandic bakery with five locations throughout the city.

They specialize in breads, particularly sourdough, and Nordic-style pastries. I’ve yet to have something bad at Artic. Even their sandwiches, which range from a pesto grilled cheese to a spicy, jalapeno-infused tuna salad — both on sourdough — are incredible.

Brooke and I are slowly eating our way through the bakery and usually devour whatever we’ve ordered before I have any time to take a photo (i.e. their incredibly buttery peanut butter cookie). But here are two. Note that they are both half-eaten.

And their monkey muffin, which is basically just monkey bread in some paper wrapping.

Next, last Saturday, I took a trip to Prague’s weekly farmers market. I’d been once or twice before, and it’s a really special market. They’ve got everything from fresh produce to meats, cheeses, oysters and champagne, fresh baked goods, and traditional Czech dishes — all served on little to-go trays to enjoy under the sun (or clouds) beside the Vltava River. There are always a few artisans selling their handmade items, and there’s a great musician named Tony Rose who serenades the whole thing with his country-twinged acoustic sound.

It’s impossible for me to decide what to eat at places like this, where there are so many options, so I made myself get the first thing that intrigued me. That day, it was these: obložené chlebíčky, Czech open-faced sandwiches.

They were invented in the early 20th century in Prague, during the First Czechoslovak Republic, by a man named Jan Paukert, a deli owner. Painter Jan Skramlík, who was painting Paukert’s wine cellar, asked him to make something bigger than a canapé, something of “two or three bites,” rather than one– and the rest is history. He began to sell them in his deli and they were a success. Today, chlebíčky are found all around the Czech Republic in delis and cafes.

They are traditionally made with veka, Czech white bread, and are topped with a wide range of ingredients from mayonnaise to ham to potato salads and beetroot spread. They’re sort of like the Czech version of Scandinavian smørrebrød, or Italian bruschetta: a small burst of flavor, always sure to satisfy.

I spotted a stand at the farmer’s market that had a variety of them. I’ve been wanting to try these for a long time, so I pulled out a hundred crowns (equivalent to $4.39 / 4.05 EUR) and ordered two.

The purple one is, of course, a beetroot spread with horseradish. It was topped with some micro greens and a baby pickled onion. The horseradish provided just the kick I needed to start my farmer’s market crawl. The green one is a parsley remoulade topped with shaved carrots and some pumpkin seeds and greens. I liked this one the most and would love to try to recreate that delicious, peppery remoulade.

While I ate my chlebíčky, I stood beside a stand that was frying vdolky — sweet, doughy cakes — in a big vat of oil. The smell was tempting enough; for a moment, I felt like I was at a fair back in the States, ready to indulge in all the fried food my body could handle.

The same stand also had a variety of different štrúdl, but I went for a vdolek. They’re like little fried dough balls, and they aren’t filled with anything, like you may expect. Instead, they’re topped with some sort of jam and some sort of cheese or cream; the one I had was topped with tvaroh, or quark cheese.

Fresh vdolky topped with blueberry jam & quark cheese.

Vdolek with strawberry jam and quark cheese.

I got one of the last strawberry ones, because I was tempted by the fresh strawberry on top (the strawberries here right now are really good). I was by myself and was a bit worried that it’d be too rich and I wouldn’t be able to finish it — but looking back, this fear was just my persistent preparation to feel like absolute s!&% following any sweet (thanks, America).

I devoured it, and I almost ordered a second. Because they’re yeast-raised, they are so, so light. They aren’t overly sweet, either. It was the perfect dessert to follow my savory chlebíčky.

Brooke is preparing for exams and her thesis defense, so I’ve been accompanying her to an array of cafes every day. Prague has so many of them that it’s often hard to pick which one to go to. But we both have our favorites.

mamacoffee is one, particularly their location in New Town.

I love their coffee (and they serve it in the cutest cups), but I was feeling ginger tea on this visit. I tried their pastry with tempeh and carrot and potato, and it was lovely and reminiscent of Thanksgiving.

Cafedu is another favorite and the best one for getting work done since they are, technically, a study-cafe. We were on an iced dirty chai kick for a while, and their blueberry crumble cake is literally what dreams are made of…on my last day here, I’m going to beg their staff for the recipe because it’s actually ridiculous how good it is.

KRO Kitchen is a recent discovery. In Vinohrady, their cafe has a big window that opens up when the weather’s nice. The view into the street is simple but lovely, occupied by the occasional red tram that passes by, and garnished by a bit of greenery.

Their coffee’s okay, but their pastries are unmatched. We tried this strawberry cream pastry, which reminded me of the strawberry cream brioche at my beloved Marigold, back in Rome.

Perhaps the best for last is Version. They don’t have the best food, but I can’t get enough of their coffee. I have to force myself to savor it and not chug it because it’s that good. Plus, the vibe in there is always perfect for studying.

Another honorable mention is Dos Mundos. It’s a coffee roaster that supplies many of the local coffee shops, but I finally checked out one of their cafes up in Prague 7 a few days ago, and it was a cute little spot.

Don’t worry, now; I eat more than just sweets. (Though I mostly eat sweets.)

I eat burgers and fries, too!

For real, though, we went out for dinner at Dish, a super popular burger place in Vinohrady, and I tried their veggie burger. We got watermelon spritzes and garlic fries, too.

I’m always delighted when places make veggie burgers with care and don’t just throw a Beyond Burger on the grill and call it a day. This one was made with sweet potatoes and chickpeas – how cool! It was great, and the cucumber sour cream spread was super fresh-tasting.

I was doing some research on Prague 7 the other day, and I came across Dim Sum Spot. Immediately, I began to crave dumplings and knew I had to go after my breakfast at Dos Mundos. They had a really interesting selection of vegetarian ones to choose from.

I ordered two types: one was tofu with chili oil and peanuts (a little too spicy for me, but still delicious), and the other was potato with fried onion and parsley (10/10!!). They also had an extensive tea list, and I ordered some jasmine tea.

And last but not least, we went out for a few Czech appetizers and beers at Mlsnej Kocour. We split a side of horseradish pancakes and a selection of mini Czech sausages — both of which tasted great with our Kozel.

That’s all for today. I’m feeling really lucky that I’m able to stay in Prague for the next few weeks and that I’ve been able to enjoy some of the best food it has to offer now that I have some free time to explore. It’s really an incredible city, and I hope you can visit someday.

If you want to see more of what I’ve been eating / what I’ve been up to, check out my food page on Instagram for more. And if you’re heading to Prague anytime soon, check out my Prague food guide, which I am constantly adding to!

Happy Saturday, and happy June, and happy pride!

Perfect Day

My idea of a perfect day begins here, in Piazza Santo Spirito.

It’s my favorite piazza in all of Italy, and it’s one I hold close to my heart.

Daydreams of Venice

The Grand Canal from the Rialto Bridge. March 2022.

It’s been almost a year since I visited Venice, and I can’t get it off my mind.

So much so that I’ve been scouring the Internet for train tickets and places to stay all week. In between schoolwork, I’ve been slowly planning a trip to return during the weekend of my 21st birthday in April, and I can’t wait.

I thought I’d write a bit of a piece about the single day I spent in Venice last March with a couple of my friends from university, since I never shared anything about it here. It was one of the greatest and most memorable days of my life — and it was the first time I felt the “love at first sight” feeling for a place.

Before I begin, I’d like to credit pretty much all of my knowledge of Venetian culture, life, and history to my friend and roommate, Sabi. She is one of the most passionate people I know, and her knowledge, and pride for Veneto as an Italian region is surely one of the reasons why I loved Venice so much. She showed us around, fed us the best food, and she patiently let us all take in one of the most magical places on Earth — and I will be forever grateful! Andiamo…

If I told you I was completely sober on this day, I’d simply be lying to you.

In Venice, they say, you must do as the Venetians do — and the Venetians drink. This I quickly learned, as we ordered our first glasses of wine at 11 in the morning.

We’d just taken a bus ride from Lido di Jesolo, where we were staying, and were hungry for some cicchetti, small bites and snacks that are an important part of Venetian cuisine. We found a bacaro, a Venetian wine bar, pretty shortly after exiting the bus, and ordered some small bites: fried eggplant and zucchini flowers, fried seafood, and small sandwiches of various sliced meat.

“Do you want a drink?” Sabi yelled from across the bar. It was empty, except for our group of six. She had just ordered cicchetti, and the waiter must have asked her for our drink order.

This is what brunch looks like in Venice.

And so, along with our food came six glasses of white wine. Though in Venice, a glass of wine is called an ombra, which is the Italian word for shadow.

According to Venetian legend, when wine was served in Piazza San Marco — the city’s most famous piazza — wine vendors would use shadows of the bell tower to keep the wine cool. Overtime, ombra became the word Venetians used as they’d gather in the square, drinking ombre underneath the ombra.

Needless to say, we started the day on a good note.

We stumbled and wandered and got lost in the maze that is Venezia. We had nowhere to be, so we just explored.

It’s weird, because Venice is one of those places everyone sees photos of, over and over and over again. I thought I’d be unimpressed, having liked and saved my fair share of Venice canal photos on Pinterest over the years. But I was anything but unimpressed — it is far more special than I could have imagined.

Gorgeous, typical Venetian sweets from the window of a *pasticceria.*

We’d been walking for over an hour, and there was no end in sight, seeing as walking is the most efficient way to get around the city.

Sabi, being the resident tour guide, took us to a true local gem: Cantina Do Mori. It’s an incredible wine bar that’s been around since 1462 — the oldest bacaro in Venice.

The interior is slightly dark and cavelike, and the ceiling is lined with copper kettles. It’s “standing room only,” so locals and tourists drink wine and munch on the famous cicchetti while standing at the bar or around the few tables in the back.

Some of the legendary cicchetti at Cantina Do Mori

It was lunchtime, so we ordered some small bites and, of course, some wine to go with it. We stood at the bar, and despite the slightly busy atmosphere, I had never been more relaxed: this place was oddly comforting. I could feel the passion for food and drink in the air, and I’d never experienced anything quite like it.

I’m normally a vino rosso type of gal, but I had some of the best vino bianco on this day.

Paired with it was a selection of snacks, including a francobollo, the Italian word for stamp, due to its tiny, stamp-like look. This is what the bar calls these tramezzini-type sandwiches, and they’re filled with sliced meats and vegetables and cheeses.

Other cicchetti included baccalà mantecato, cod with garlic & parsley & oil on toasted bread, and capo di toro — yup, I had my first taste of tongue.

And then, minutes later, I had my very first taste of octopus.

A mini octopus, seconds before I tried a bite.

The wine helped, for sure. But also, I’d never seen half of these foods before, and I had no idea what most of them were. I didn’t know if I’d ever get a chance to come back here, so I put on my bravery badge, scratched the vegetarian title, and Anthony Bourdain-ed it.

It was pretty good, too! I’ve had octopus a few more times since then, and I am happy to report that I like it. I prefer it cooked, but… I like it.

(Now someone keep me from reading this book, which has been on my to-read list for a while. I know that once I do, I’ll likely never eat another one again.)

Five gelatos later (six total — I’m not that crazy), we stopped at another bar for, yup, another drink. This time, a spritz.

The spritz is everywhere these days. On my first trip to Prague last September, the entire escalator down to the metro was lined with ads for Aperol. And yet, apparently, it is nowhere to be found, back in the states!

In Venice, though, the spitz is around every corner — it’s a Veneto creation!

It was invented in the 1800s, when Italian regions Lombardia and Veneto were combined and ruled by the Austrian Empire. Austrian diplomats, merchants, and workers weren’t used to the strength of the Veneto wine (which is some of the best) — so they began to water it down.

Eventually, they graduated to carbonated water, and the spritz (spritzen meaning “splash” in German) became more of what it is today.

It wasn’t until 1920, though, that the Spritz Veneziano was born, after Select, a bitter, was invented and added to the drink. So, the real Spritz is not made with Aperol, but with Select… but it’s still just as delicious, if not more so.

So we drank our Spritzes at a little tiny bar outside of Bacaro Risorto Castello, sitting on the crooked bar stools alongside the busy Campo S. Provolo. They even had a bathroom we could use — a rarity in Venice. It was a good day.

It was the end of March then, so the sunset felt never-ending until we sat down and watched it quickly lower itslf, touching the lagoon at lightning speed.

One of my favorite memories from this day was just this — la dolce far niente. We had been walking all day, and our legs were tired, so we sat along the lagoon underneath the setting sun.

As we watched water taxis speed by, creating tiny waves, more and more people started to sit along the lagoon. Groups of friends, couples, locals, and tourists — everyone, in the same place, for the same purpose: to soak in the last moments of sun.

As we watched the sunset, we ate ice cream from Gelateria Nico, ordering the legendary “Gianduiotto” — a square of gianduja ice cream (chocolate/hazlenut) with a heaping spoonful of homemade whipped cream. Another great food recommendation courtesy of Sabi, and one of the best things we ate that day. (Plus, check out the amazing typography on the cups!)

We talked and laughed and licked ice cream from our lips for what felt like forever. I remember looking at the sun every few minutes, noticing how quickly it was setting all of a sudden. Pretty soon, it was gone completely: the only light left came from the streetlights behind us.

We stayed for another two hours or so, wandering the streets at dusk and admiring the city from a new angle, free of sunlight.

Before catching the traghetto (water taxi) back to the mainland, we ate a quick pizza dinner at a pretty shitty touristy restaurant. It was what was nearby, and we just needed something in our stomachs to survive until the next morning.

A mediocre meal often puts a damper on my day, as it should… but that day, all I could think about was how happy I was. Call me dramatic, but I remember thinking to myself, on multiple occasions: If today was my last day on Earth, I would be completely satisfied.

There were not-so-amazing parts and there were parts I guess I would eliminate, but that’s how life always is, and I’d want my last day to be a perfect representation of life. This day was just that: food, friends, travel, color, & sunshine. It’s all I need, and it’s all I crave — every single day.

Alla prossima, Venezia!

Free Man in Paris: Part Two

Words and photographs from day three of my solo trip to Paris, France in November of 2021

I’ve been at a standstill writing this series, which isn’t much of a series since I’ve only written the first part.

And then, this week, while walking outside, I felt a breeze. It was short, but it was powerful: it gave me chills, but as I kept walking, the sun warmed my back. For a moment, I felt like I was back in France, in the middle of November, walking out of the metro and into the harsh greyness of the city. I was reminded of this, quickly, and though it escaped my body immediately, it didn’t leave my mind. Since then, the trip has been scattered about in my hard drive of a mind — hence my instant inspiration to continue writing about the trip.

(If you haven’t read part one, you may read it here.)

Following my first real creme brûlée, I walked back to the hostel with a full stomach and a more optimistic mindset. I figured out timing regarding the next day’s plans, and then I slept.

I had scheduled a tour at the Louvre on Airbnb for 2:00. I was happy to be able to sleep in and take a shower that morning without rushing, like I had the previous morning before the bike tour.

I took my time getting to the museum, and, of course, once I walked out of the grand metro station, it began to rain. My clothes grew slightly damp, but I didn’t really mind as I knew I’d be inside for the next few hours. Plus, to complain about rain while in a place as beautiful as Paris just seemed wrong.

I walked around the grounds surrounding the museum, stopping at a little stand for a Nutella crepe — my first one since I’d arrived. It warmed me up and made the spitting sky a little easier to endure. I found a bench to eat on and people-watched for a while, eventually calling my friend Brooke for some company.

It’s always strange calling back home from abroad. It was super early back in Boston, where Brooke was at the time, while I had been up for a few hours. My day looked so much different than hers, and a part of me wished she — or, frankly, anyone — were there with me. This desire slowly dwindled as the trip went on, though, and I ended it glad that I had gone alone.

I signed up for a tour of the museum mostly I am an auditory learner, and I knew that if I was going to visit the Louvre, I was going to leave having learned something. I’m simply no good at reading and retaining things on museum plaques, so I knew some sort of tour was necessary for such an important experience.

This was the tour I did, which highlighted the can’t-miss masterpieces of the museum. The guide, Sylvanie, was fantastic. I was the first to arrive at the meeting spot, so we talked a little bit, and it turns out she went to school in Rome for her master’s degree! One by one, other group members joined us, and once everyone had made it, we all made our way into the museum.

You really can’t understand how big this place is until you visit. This tour only scratched the surface, which I’m glad for, but it made me certain that I need to visit again to see the many works I missed.

I have so many photos, but here are just some of my favorites:

This one was discovered in 1820 by a random farmer in Greece. Imagine just casually coming across this in your yard! If you look closely in person, you can see slight cracks where it’s been attached since it wasn’t found in one piece.

I love pretty much everything by Bernini, but this has to be one of my favorites. The marble mattress is incredible, and as you walk around the whole thing, you realize why it’s called Hermaphroditus.

As I entered this room, I made the internal decision that I need to come back — to everything: to France, to Paris, and to the Louvre itself. I had no idea this room existed; honestly, the only thing I knew about the Louvre was that the Mona Lisa lived there. The fact that there are probably millions of beautiful, unforgettable things within it — and within the city alone — that I’ll likely never see both overwhelmed me and reminded me of why I love travel so much.

An underrated da Vinci masterpiece. Sylvanie explained that this one is oil painted on wood, and you can actually see the wooden texture if you look at it closely.

Alas, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Here she is, in all her glory. The Mona Lisa. I knew she was smaller in real life, but I didn’t realize she’d be that small. I was slightly underwhelmed, but still very excited.

My tour group decided to wait in line to take photos and see it up close. It actually went by much quicker than I expected, and Sylvanie kept us entertained by spitting a million facts about the painting. Long story short, I left the Louvre loving art history more than I ever have. That’s when you know you had a good tour guide.

Me & Mona.

A lovely marble sculpture by Canova. We quickly passed by this one on our way out, but it ended up being one of my favorite things I saw that day.

Once the tour ended, Sylvanie explained that our tickets were still valid and that we could continue exploring the museum if we wanted. I decided to end there, because I knew if I continued I’d get burnt out, and I wanted my last moments at the Louvre to be good ones.

We all said goodbye, and I, being a gift shop connoisseur, naturally made my way towards the shopping area. I bought a few souvenirs and Christmas presents for friends and family and then headed to the metro where I rode back to the hostel.

Riding back to Belleville, I remember standing up, holding my bag of souvenirs, and staring back at my reflection in the train’s window. I was both tired from the day’s activities thus far, and slightly nervous for the evening ahead. It felt weird to me to have so much freedom — I could easily cancel my plans, since nobody was in my way to stop me from doing so.

But instead of letting my nerves get in the way, I embraced the freedom: the freedom I had longed for for as long as I could remember. It’s weird how we desire certain things so much, and then once we’ve got them, they scare the hell out of us.

Once I got back to the hostel, I changed clothes and relaxed for a few minutes. I hadn’t decided on a place to eat dinner, but I didn’t have too much time, so I asked the girls in my room if they knew any good places in the neighborhood. One of them, who was an American living in Istanbul, recommended the pho restaurant that I’d walked past every day on my way to the hostel, so I decided to check it out.

The view from my window seat at Pho 168. The sky had darkened, and I ate pho légumes with some hot tea that evening. It was warm and delicious, and the staff was especially kind. The restaurant wasn’t busy at all — I barely had any neighbors, which was lonely but oddly soothing as I listened to only a few voices echo through the quiet dining room.

When I finished, I went up to the counter to pay before using the bathroom. Then, I ventured out into the cold and rainy night to see Sébastian Tellier — a musician who is absolutely worth enduring shitty weather for.

I hopped on a train and put in my headphones. I traveled for nearly 30 minutes, slightly anxious every time it made a stop for fear that I’d miss mine.

These flowers were the first thing I saw upon exiting the metro. I walked a few blocks and finally arrived at the Salle Pleyel. This performance was part of Pitchfork Paris, and I think it was the final show of the festival.

I arrived just on time and found my seat on the balcony. I was slightly early, but enjoyed watching people on the floor as they mingled, maskless (an odd sight for November of 2021) with drinks in hand.

Right before the show started, “Hard Drive” by Cassandra Jenkins began to play over the speakers. She had performed at the festival the night before, and I’d discovered her just a month prior via that song. It is true poetry, and Pitchfork says it much better than I can in their review:

“As Jenkins figures things out, her band—featuring Stuart Bogie on saxophone, Eric Biondo on drums, and Josh Kaufman on guitar, keys, and fretless bass—settles into a glassy, sophisti-pop groove that glides like a slow journey uphill.”

It’s hard to explain, but I’ve found that certain songs have the power illuminate parts of my mind, even if I’ve listened to them a million times before. Sometimes, they come to me at just the right time, allowing for some sort of realization or epiphany. This evening, that happened twice: the first was during this song, which I could just barely make out over clinking glasses and muffled, incomprehensible words coming from my neighbors.

But still, I felt it in all its glory, like I’d finally made it up that “slow journey uphill” myself. Sitting there, in the middle of a random theater in Paris, I sunk into my seat and closed my eyes briefly. I was proud of myself for making it here, and for making this evening happen. I clung tight to the moment, trying extra hard to store it inside my own personal hard drive.

The show itself was merveilleux. It was also the first indoor concert I’d attended since 2019. The lighting was simple but super cool and colorful, much like Tellier himself. And I’ll never forget is his stage presence: he is the first performer I’ve ever seen smoke a cigarette during multiple numbers. His slow, near-stumbling movements were quite entertaining to watch over a loud, eccentric, synthpop adventure.

Then, when the show began to wind down, I knew what was coming: “La ritournelle.” It’s his most popular song, but it’s my favorite of his, and it’s also one of my favorite songs ever. I love everything about it, even down to the name: la ritournelle is such a beautiful word (in Italian, it’s ritornello, which fittingly rhymes with bello).

Like “Hard Drive,” I’d listened to it a million times before, but I think seeing it live will live in my “Best Concert Memories of All Time” mental list forever. It is a song that transports me every time I listen to it. It’s an escape from reality, only this time, I realized that it was the soundtrack to my reality. I was living “La ritournelle”: I could hear every breath and beat and note that existed and danced around me for a whole seven-and-a-half minutes. It was magic, and I hope I never forget it.

I left right after the show ended and decided to Uber back to the hostel, since it was late and I didn’t feel like being on the metro for another half-hour. As I sat in the back of the car, I remember feeling very small watching the city fly by. It was a good kind of small, though; it was one that reminded me of all the other magic moments I had yet to experience.

Stay tuned for the next few parts of this series, where I’ll share more photos and stories from the rest of my trip!