A Day Off in Paris with Grace Ives
On the European leg of her album tour, the Queens-based indie-pop artist takes us through the city of romance.
Grace Ives is deep in her Girlfriend era, still riding the bright, slightly disorienting afterglow of her third studio album, released earlier this spring. This summer she's been touring her new music across America and Europe, where songs that once lived in the privacy of her bedroom now bloom across rooms full of strangers. Below, we catch up with her on a day off in Paris—where she takes us along on a trek through the city, from an encounter with the most perfect strawberries to a rum-soaked dessert that nearly broke her three years of sobriety. A perfect day, almost.
Tuesday. Off day in Paris. Played a show last night. It was really good/great. The sheer nightgown I played in is hanging, still damp, in the bathroom, which is two feet to my left (smallest room in the world, classic Paris, I think). The floor is completely covered in different dopp kits, trinkets, and dirty clothes. A pile of dirty cotton pads stacked on my nightstand. I didn’t charge my phone last night.
12:31 p.m. My eyes open. I feel both bloated and empty. Hungry. I pull back the window’s curtain and let in air and light. Sam and I both groan and smack our lips to say “so thirsty, so hungry.”
1:05 p.m. John texts me. We are more awake now, having drank some water, taken meds, peed, etcetera. We start planning the day. I say I want to go to the graveyard.
1:20 p.m. John, Sam, and I walk to the Cimetière de Montemartre.
1:30 p.m. We pass by a fruit stand and see some perfect looking strawberries. I buy them for 5 euros. Maybe less, I can’t remember. They are perfect. We eat most of them as we walk to a café we were told to go to. I quickly make peace with the thought of carrying a bag of strawberries with me all day. I eat a million, and leave a trail of the little green tops as we walk.
1:40 p. m. At the café, I use my remedial French to order us une quiche aux champignon et deux cappuccino. The person I order from heats up the quiche, but only the sides get warm, and it is not mushroom, it’s mixed vegetables, which is fine. We eat outside. It’s delicious. I take a polaroid of the strawberries, but I’m too close to them, and the flash is too bright. We all think it’s a cute picture anyways.
2:00 p.m. We start walking towards the cemetery. We went the wrong way for about 2 minutes. I’m really glad I wore my hokas instead of my little white flats.
2:35 p.m. We get to the cemetery. The map says that Dégas is buried in the left back corner of the site, so we head in that direction. It’s beautiful. The air is green and sweet, and we take off our sweaters. It’s feeling like a perfect day.
3:00 p.m. We can’t find Dégas’ grave. We agree that everyone buried here is just as important as Dégas, and decide to head to Sacré-Cœur.
3:25 p.m. We’re deep in a tourist area. We have to climb multiple steep flights of stairs. We’re basically hiking. I’m sweaty. John and I are permanently tired from being on tour. Sam seems happy to be hiking. I’m trying not to complain or fall behind. I have chubby girl fear of being seen as slow and out of shape, so I’m steadily ascending, but it kind of sucks.
3:35 p.m. We reach the top of the world. The city looks cramped and romantic. The Sacré-Coeur is behind us. I don’t take a picture for some reason. I feel like I’ve been here before, but I couldn't say when. It’s massive, and so is its line to get in. We decide not to wait in line. We say it doesn’t feel worth it, but really I think we all just want to lie down.
3:40 p.m. We stand around saying “well…” and “uhhhh, what now?” We decide to head towards the Seine. I think we all secretly want to go back to the hotel, but we’re trying to be brave.
4:10 p.m. We’re waiting for the train. I take a picture of myself, and a polaroid of Sam and John.
4:30 p.m. We get off the train, and immediately enter a palatial scene. It feels like we time traveled. I don’t know where we are, or the significance of any of the buildings. We walk through a park of wide paths paved with dusty gravel and lined with short bushy trees. We sit down. It feels amazing. I decide to throw away the strawberries because I’m basically just carrying around warm jam. We’re hungry. John says we can walk to Café le Flore. I say, “but John, it only has 3 stars,” which comes out bratty so I play it off as a joke. We cross the Seine and I ask how boats float.
5:15 p.m. We’re at the restaurant. We order a charcuterie plate, a Mediterranean salad, and a crème brûlée. It’s all fine. Very expensive. There’s a popular (touristy) pharmacy nearby I want to check out. We’re killing time before we meet our friend/drummer, Mikee, for dinner at a spot her friend told her to go to. She wants to try candied pork. It starts to pour. Big blobs smacking our heads like water balloons. They feel almost viscous. We aren’t saying it, but we’re miserable.
6:15 p.m. City Pharmacy feels as crowded as Primavera. We are in and out in under a minute. We stand under an awning waiting for the rain to stop.
6:20 p.m. We’re on a train to “Bouillon Julien,” where Mikee has been told to go. I’m still of the belief we’re getting candied pork.
6:45 p.m. We get off the train near a bunch of beauty supply stores. I look for pink hair dye. I find really shitty pink Wella hair masks that I buy for some reason. I also buy a little bag of bright pink mini hairbands.
7:00 p.m. We’re in line waiting for a table. I peel off most of my nail polish. It’s still kind of raining. I only brought one sweater on this trip and it’s soaking wet. I really need to do laundry.
8:00 p.m. We get a table. The restaurant is a huge pale green banquet hall with a stained glass ceiling. There are art nouveau murals on the walls. It’s crowded, and I hear a lot of people speaking English, which I take as a bad sign. There is no candied pork here. We’ve been led astray. The waiter hates us. I forget how to say “share” in French. I feel slow and cold. Sam and I share a steak. It’s not good. I’m bummed because I had all these restaurants saved that people had told me to go to, but I followed the group plan of candied pork, and now I am cutting cold steak with a butter knife, thinking it’s not even as good as Smokehouse in LA. I’m grateful to be alive, with friends, and that I have a body that can climb stairs.
8:50 p.m. We decide to go big on dessert after our entrée disappointment. We order chocolate mousse, french toast, rum baba, and something called a Julien that the recipe claims as a specialty. They are all freezing cold. They all taste the same, except for the Rum Baba. I try a bite of the rum baba, it is soaked in uncooked rum. It stings my mouth and instantly I feel a sober panic. I am brought back to taking shots, to having no chaser. I spit it out instantly and try not to lose my shit. I am a week away from 3 years sober. I feel like crying and sticking my fingers down my throat. I want to go home. I check how many steps I took today and it says 19,159.
9:20 p.m. After waiting a little too long to pay the check, I call us an uber back to the hotel. The driver is listening to a reggaeton mix. I press my cheek to the cold glass. I can still smell the rum.
9:45 p.m. We’re back in the hotel room. I take the hottest shower my skin allows and stand with my head bowed under the water. I crouch to the shower floor and tuck my knees to my chest.
10:05 p.m. I’m in bed and I decide to start watching Big Love. I’ve never seen it. It’s good enough for me right now. Sam reads, which I’m jealous of. I have a book, but no book light. Huge packing error.
12:00 a.m. I try to sleep. Try not to think about how in Brooklyn it’s 6pm. My cats are eating dinner. I inhale to my diaphragm, hold, inhale to my ribs, hold, and inhale into my heart. Hold. Count to three, then exhale counting to eight. I roll my eyes around in my skull because I once read that this releases melatonin in your body. I think about packing up tomorrow morning at 9 and driving to Brussels. I wonder if it’s still raining.
1:30 a.m. I’m asleep.