Rethinking Romance in Paris
Is Paris Still the Most Romantic City?
Ah, Paris. La Ville Lumière. The City of Love. Or is it?
I’ve been to Paris three times now, and not once did it feel like the romantic dream the world insists it is. I started to wonder—was I doing Paris all wrong? Was I missing something?
When I searched for answers, I stumbled upon a Reddit thread asking the same question: When and why did Paris receive the title “City of Love” and was there a city before it who had that title previously? It turns out, the romantic myth of Paris was largely shaped by American perceptions in the 19th century. Wealthy white Protestant men traveled there and found a city that was bohemian, sexually liberated, and exhilaratingly different from the social restrictions of home. Over time, this romanticised vision of Paris became mythologised through literature and cinema. By the early 20th century, the city’s reputation was already split—on one hand, a haven for sex workers and scandalous liaisons, and on the other, a dreamy escape for lovers.
Hollywood did the rest, crafting an image of Paris as the ultimate destination for love, beauty, and grand romantic gestures. Today, “The City of Love” remains an enduring cliché, woven into honeymoon itineraries, engagement dreams, and Instagram captions.
But if Paris is the City of Love, why didn’t I feel it?
Expectation vs. Reality
The first time I visited, I was alone. My mother had introduced me to someone she knew in Paris, and we met up for a day. It wasn’t romantic; it felt more like two friends hanging out, him showing me around parts of the city that were fun rather than traditionally romantic. I climbed Montmartre to reach Sacré-Cœur—something I will never do again. It was exhausting, not enchanting.
Maybe I had expected something different. My idea of Paris had been shaped by books, stories of people falling madly in love against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower, or walking hand in hand along the Seine. Isn’t that what Paris is supposed to be? A place where love finds you? Where romance is in the air, in the cafés, in the twinkling lights?
Spoiler alert: I didn’t find love in Paris. I found him in Lille.
Even moments that should have felt romantic fell short. Take, for example, waiting by the Seine to watch the Eiffel Tower light up. I could have romanticised that moment, convinced myself it was magical. But it was too fucking cold—10°C with the wind cutting through my coat. I shivered more than I swooned.
The Myth That Won't Die
Despite my own experience, the myth of Paris as the City of Love still holds up today. People continue to visit, hand in hand, convinced that the city itself will sprinkle romance into their relationships. Paris is seen as the height of sophistication—an old-world European city where love must flourish because, well, doesn’t everyone say so?
But there’s a disconnect between the Paris of books and films and the Paris of reality. Romanticised Paris is all about café terraces, cobblestone streets, grand museums, and quiet moments of artistic appreciation. Real Paris? It’s loud. It’s crowded. People aren’t particularly friendly. No one smiles at you on the street. As someone from Singapore, it felt like stepping into another version of home—except this one had older buildings and French-speaking residents.
And yet, even with all that, I don’t think another city can rightfully take the title of “City of Love.” Because how do you even define a city of love? Love isn’t in the cobblestones or the skyline. It’s in the people, in the moments.
What Paris Gave Me Instead
Paris didn’t give me romance, but it gave me something else. It made me feel free. Like I could do anything I wanted, uninhibited. It gave me a deeper appreciation for art, for museums, for the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to be put into words.
And when I said yes to the rest of my life in Paris, I realised something else:
It doesn’t matter where you are. It doesn’t matter how it happens. What matters is how we, as a couple, define romance for ourselves.
And maybe, Paris will always be romantic to me—not because of the sex, not because of the twinkling Eiffel Tower. But because I said yes there. Because it was the place where my life took a turn toward something deeper, something that would last beyond one fleeting moment.
Maybe that’s the secret. Maybe Paris isn’t romantic on its own. Maybe it’s just the backdrop. And the love? That’s something you bring with you.