Paris, more than anything else, was a book haul. So much so, that I had to buy the small, hot pink rolling luggage at the baggage shop on Rue de Rennes for 20 euros – an excellent price considering a similar bag at the more touristy Gare Montparnasse was 10 euros more.
But the hot pink bag is the end of the story. The beginning starts on my direct flight from Los Angeles to Paris where I finally finished the novel Pedro Páramo by Mexican author Juan Rulfo. I promised myself I would finish Rulfo’s novel to rectify the failure of not doing so during my travels from Los Angeles to Guadalajara in December 2025. Back then, I was going to the FIL – Feria Internacional del Libro. I arrived in Guadalajara, checked in to my hotel, but fell ill, and had to end my trip and return to L.A.
So, in March 2026, my goal was the Salon du Livre Africain de Paris that I’d first learned about three years prior. And during those three years, I had promised myself I’d resuscitate my college French by listening to language lessons and stories on audiobook. Just as reading Pedro Páramo was my attempt to make things right vis a vis the novel I had to read, this trip to France was an attempt to make amends for my last visit to Paris. Despite being in London, four years ago, I hadn’t been in Paris for decades. At that time, I’d come as a recent college graduate with illusions of settling in the city for what the youthful mind deems forever. My naïve idea was to go into literary exile in the city of light. My role model at the time was the international icon Anaïs Nin who looms large over women writers. But if I had been driven by Euro-American dreams in my early twenties, this time I was coming to Paris intentionally focused on Black Paris which was the aspect of the city that completely caught me off guard and absorbed my attention many years ago.
No sooner than I’d read the last page of Pedro Páramo and gotten a decent night’s sleep at my Parisian hotel, I was off to the two bookstores I’d researched — Présence Africain and L’Harmattan Internationale both located on Rue des Écoles, near Sorbonne University. After studying the expanse and grandeur of the university, I took photos, recorded videos, and tried to excavate this specific structure from my memory. I’d enrolled in French classes at the Sorbonne way back when. But was this where I’d studied? Although I remember the inside of the classrooms, the exterior of the building didn’t really strike a chord.
Inside Présence Africain, I bought two books and the English-language magazine Black Renaissance Noire – a 2006 edition published at New York University. I chose this copy because the names of authors Victor Hernández Cruz and Ntozake Shange blared out to me from the glossy cover. When I opened it, I saw an editorial board that included Kamau Brathwaite, Maryse Conde, Angela Y. Davis, Robin D.G. Kelley, Paula Marshall, and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o.
Just across the street, I entered the two-story curator’s dream that is L’Harmattan Internationale Bookstore. Here the African book section is arranged by each individual country. I came upon a large selection of African American writing translated into French, a section of Latin American literature in the original Spanish, and huge sections on the Middle East and Asia.
With one day to go before the Salon du Livre, I spent time the next afternoon – a Friday, at about 6pm — walking along the lower banks of the Seine which was packed with young people sitting along the river conversing, eating, drinking, and listening to music. At street level, I bought two books and a newspaper. The newspaper was my gem purchase since it was Le Monde. During my L.A. youth, I religiously read the international version of the Manchester Guardian Weekly which back then also contained Le Monde in translation and The Washington Post.
On Saturday and Sunday, with crossbody handbag on my shoulder and backpack strapped on, I walked from my hotel on Rue de Rennes to the Boulanger Paris Montparnasse for my daily croissant. The buttery crispiness of the croissant sealed the deal on what a croissant should taste like. From there, I headed directly to Hotel de L’Industrie on Saint-Germain-des-Près for the Salon du Livre which was a rendezvous of literary craft and exploration. Over the two days, I listened to panels on the topics of African youth, women and the environment, Angolan writing, writing in Madagascar/Reúnion, and Afro-Caribbean writing. Honestly, sometimes the French went over my head; but I enjoyed the immersive language experience. As a teacher of English as a second language, I welcomed the challenge; and I was happy to see the level of my aural comprehension increase daily.
The actual bookfair for the salon was down Boulevard Saint-Germain at the Refectoire des Cordeliers. I went early on Sunday, a few minutes after opening, since my attempt to go on Saturday afternoon was a lesson on just how jampacked this event could be. Early Sunday, I experienced the joy and jouissance of African fabrics adorning the tables, colorful book covers, men and women in both African and Western garb, and excited children in strollers. I walked the circumference of the bookfair three times just to take it all in and engrave it into my memory. I bought three books, all of them special for their own reason. The standout text is the novel Un Prisonnier Sans Étoile because I was able to meet author Sully Quay, and she autographed my copy of the book.
A bookstore on Boulevard Montparnasse was not on my itinerary. I was hunting for food with my left shoulder aching from the crossbody and my shoulders weighed down by the backpack. As I questioned whether this was the same boulevard I’d walked to reach my youth hostel years ago, I stumbled upon the literary treasures within the sun-filled space of Librairie Tschann. There, I discovered a large array of great novels, poetry books, and bright yellow volumes on the social sciences. I bought four books, and my treasure purchase is Congre – a 300-page book of poetry by the Congre Poetry Collective. This book is my opportunity to enter the world of contemporary French poetry since my existing collection at home in L.A. is a bit dated.
My last day in Paris, I went to the American Library and spent four hours reading Un Feminisme Décolonial by French political scientist and historian Françoise Vergès. I appreciate how Vergès looks at decolonialism from the perspective of lived experience in France and Réunion. On the eleven-hour flight back to Los Angeles, I continued reading this volume as I squirmed every so often in my stiff seat trying to ease a tired back and a left foot determined to go numb during those intervals they longed for movement.
During the last few hours of the plane, I finally stopped reading. I was sure sleep would come. But that never happened; and by the time my large, pastel purple suitcase and the tiny, hot pink luggage came bouncing around the luggage carousel at LAX, I’d been awake twenty-two hours. By then, I longed for the good night’s sleep befitting an exhausted literary connoisseur with insatiable international aspirations.
Audrey Shipp 