Vanilla painted brick walls rise up on all sides of me, with red doors to each apartment and red frames to the windows. The walls create a little grotto that is insulated from the sound of cars and mopeds and rattly strollers and suitcases on the cobbles outside the front window of the apartment. Instead, I only hear the pleasant tinkling of outdoor diners’ wine glasses and cutlery.

-June 2, 2025, Lille

We arrived safely in Lille on a train from Paris. Trains run frequently between the cities and the ride is a smidge over an hour, so it’s not hard to get back and forth. This was good for me to know — maybe I could go back to Paris after my husband and son left and I would be on my own in Lille.

Vieux Lille, the historic district we stayed in, is charming with different architecture from Paris. The apartment units are narrow, more like row houses, and the cobbled streets are smaller and narrower, too. Maybe the architecture is more Belgian-style — Lille is practically on the border and was once a part of Belgium — or maybe it’s just a smaller city.

It is much calmer in Lille, and quieter and easier than Paris. In our immediate vicinity were a pasteis de nata patisserie called Dona Bica and a café we could see from our open window; a chocolatier and macaron shop a couple of doors down; a cheese shop and multiple boulangeries, beer gardens and waffles, a crêperie and a Cathedral all within a 2 minute walk; and the Grand Place central square and plenty of shopping for shoes, clothes, food, and wine within a 5 minute walk.

We all needed some alone time once we arrived in Lille. I went upstairs to unpack, and when I came back down, I found my husband asleep on the couch in the living room with his book on his chest. Our son retreated to his room for some quiet time as well. The washing machine tumbled round and round.

I took a snack and a glass of the Anjou wine to the little wooden table on the terrace. The wine was cold and crisp, though I did not need a cold crisp wine that day. The air was cool enough that I wore a sweater with my white peasant skirt. My toes were chilly but I liked the feel of the wood planks under my bare feet.

The terrace we shared with other apartments was filled with pots of red and white geraniums, purple salvia, pink and yellow petunias, bamboo and ivy. As I sipped my wine and wrote, I heard the gentle sound of a neighbor washing up the dishes in the kitchen sink after dinner: the clink of glasses, the rush of water from a faucet, hands dipping in and out of the stream. Silverware clinked together as they rinsed. Church bells chimed.

I liked it there in that little nook. I need quiet time with pen and paper to take care of myself. Bread and brie, flowers and wine, church bells don’t hurt, either.