The Art of Intentional Magic
An Ode to the Everyday Romantic
I first encountered Paris through the dreamy filter of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's film Amélie (or Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain), which I fell in love with at sixteen years old. After my shifts at the local video rental store, I'd take home stacks of DVDs, losing myself in foreign films of all kinds.
Besides my budding artistic interests in cinematography and storytelling, I was drawn to the mystery of these films, each one a window into exotic philosophies, ways of life, and far-away worlds I longed to explore. But Amélie was something else entirely, bringing together several profound elements that greatly influenced me.
There was the soundtrack, of course. But that deserves its own post.
As someone whose natural exuberance is balanced by moments of deep reflection, I was romanced by Amélie's uniquely introverted-yet-bold character. I actually think that her charming qualities and the lessons of the film inspired a whole new level of introspection for 16-year-old me.
But one of the things that moved me most was her unshakeable self-knowledge—Amélie knew exactly what delighted her, from the satisfying crack of a caramelized crème brûlée to skipping stones across the Canal Saint-Martin.
She never questioned whether her pleasures were too small or her interests too strange. She simply was who she was, and she indulged in it fully.
I found this sense of courage and depth of meaning infectious. How beautiful could the world be if we all approached life this way?
I began channeling this inspiration into a variety of creative pursuits, including my own black and white short film Francesco, a whimsical tale where the heartbroken main character finds unexpected love with a teddy bear.
The bear, for what it's worth, was an excellent listener and never once complained about Francesco's emotional baggage.
Jokes aside, even then I was searching for any way I could create joy and beauty—something that has been my saving grace again and again.
Paris Calling
Despite being a seasoned world traveler (80 countries and counting), I had somehow never made it to Paris. But in 2023, the end of a traumatic relationship had left me worn out and unrecognizable to myself.
I needed to rediscover my romantic nature, to fall in love with myself again. So, I decided to book a three-day trip to Paris, not to escape, but to remember who I was.
From the moment I arrived, I set the tone for how I wanted to move through this city: with intention and artistic grace.
After checking into a small boutique hotel in Montmartre, I made my way to Chez Papa jazz club, where I enjoyed a candlelit table for one, complete with a glass of Bordeaux and one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
No phone to distract me, no conversation to maintain. Just the art of being present.
Many people shy away from dining alone, but I've always found solitary meals to be very special moments. They invite creativity, and give us a chance to notice the subtle details that conversation might otherwise eclipse.
After dinner seemed like the perfect opportunity to see the Eiffel tower at night. So, I grabbed a taxi and headed over there, arriving just in time to see the hourly light show—a sparkling hello from this iconic piece of Paris.
As I explored the full extent of the tower (in heels, no less) and marveled at its magnificence, I smiled to myself through windswept hair: Paris is overrated, they said.
I took in the view of the city from the top: the maze of zinc rooftops stretching to the horizon, chimneys puffing gentle clouds into the twilight sky, the Seine cutting its graceful ribbon through it all. Any city can be ordinary if you let it—but standing there, I knew I'd never understand how anyone could find Paris anything less than magical.
A Cinephile in Montmartre
The next morning, I wandered through Montmartre to Café des Deux Moulins (the Two Windmills Cafe), where Amélie worked in the film. No doubt I must have looked like quite the tourist, examining every recognizable detail that had been painted in my mind for over 20 years.
I didn’t care.
The coffee, as it turned out, was some of the worst I've ever had—a comical and somehow imperfectly perfect discovery for my pilgrimage. Undeterred, I moved on to sweeter things, treating myself to an absolutely gorgeous brioche before passing by the Moulin Rouge (yet another symbol of my early artistic inspirations).
From there, I made my way up to Sacré-Cœur, the gleaming white basilica that crowns Montmartre. Fresh air, sunshine, and breathtaking views surrounded me as I looked out on the city and thought about the scene where Amélie leaves mysterious clues for her love interest Nino, leading him on a playful treasure hunt through the crowds on these very steps.
In my own small tribute to Amélie's spirit of playfulness, I made my way down to the iconic 18th century carousel at the base of the steps, bought a ticket, and claimed a sturdy-looking horse, finding myself the only adult among a chorus of children.
There was something quite fitting about this.
After a quick lunch and a kir royale at a nearby cafe, I set out on an epic walk through the city. Starting down the Champs-Élysées, I eventually wound my way back to Champ de Mars park and briefly rested in the grass before boarding a sunset river cruise down the Seine.
As evening settled over Paris, I continued walking along the river until I stumbled upon a vibrant barge-turned-bar. Drawn in by the multicolored neon lights (I’m a sucker for those), I found myself entering what felt like a secret party.
I found a perch by the window and watched the lights shimmer on the Seine, reflecting on the day. If the energy is rich, I will find it, I said to myself.
When I returned to Montmartre that night, I came across a karaoke bar (an opportunity I rarely turn down). Down in the basement, stone walls glowed under pink neon lights while young Parisians sang their way through French classics.
I soaked in their enthusiasm—music is the universal language, isn’t it—and then, gave them an energetic rendition of the theme song from Dirty Dancing, as they became my impromptu backup singers.
La vie est belle.
Little Ceremonies
My final day in Paris became an exercise in curating and celebrating beauty. After seeking out an exquisite croissant, I had one priority in particular: Monet.
I had a feeling I’d be back in Paris soon enough, so I forewent the Louvre and decided to spend the morning at the Musée de l'Orangerie—which houses Monet’s Water Lilies murals, as well as a distinctive collection of other impressionist and post-impressionist works.
It felt like I was inside some kind of church. I reveled in this solitude, gazing at the art in front of me, while musing on nature's eternal dialogue with human creativity.
The true scale of these paintings is impressive, and their beauty is overwhelming. The rest of the museum was a delight as well.
Afterward, I went to a flower shop and asked for a small bouquet to carry around with me. The florist seemed surprised, but charmed—she understood me.
Earth laughs in flowers, wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson. “Haha,” said my bouquet, I guess.
As it started to rain, I moved to a sidewalk cafe. Here was my tableau: a glass of champagne and crème brûlée, my bouquet resting elegantly on the table, afternoon light playing across the scene. Soft rain, golden bubbles dancing.
Each moment a small ceremony in the art of living.
My good friend, baker and sourdough expert Mykola Nevrev had informed me about a must-visit boulangerie, so it was now mission baguette. As I finished my champagne and paid the waiter, gentle showers turned into a rainstorm.
Having forgotten my umbrella, I ended up running through the downpour until I found the bakery, securing one of the last baguettes of the day. Protecting my precious bread from the rain like a newborn baby, I headed back to Montmartre, drenched.
Nearing my hotel, I found a fromagerie, where I stopped in to select a piece of truffle brie and some thinly sliced ham—the final elements of a quaint late lunch (and photoshoot, apparently).
I arrived back to the hotel, opened the balcony doors, and laid my treasures on the bed in artistic fashion. I took some photos, had a few bites, and finally stretched out with a satisfied yawn.
Outside, pigeons danced across wrought iron railings, and a cool post-rain breeze played at my feet. With its overcast mist, the quiet expanse of the late afternoon beckoned. An epic nap followed.
I had another artful dinner later that evening. Then, I decided to pay a visit to the Moulin Rouge—if nothing else, just for the historical poetry of it all.
For some reason, they seated me in the front row, where I was able to fully admire the opulent velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, and the lavish Belle Époque decor that seemed to breathe with the ghosts of Paris's most legendary cabaret.
Touristy? Yes. Entertaining? Yes. Worth it? Yes!
How appropriate that my whirlwind journey would end here, in this shrine to Parisian spectacle, having crafted my own love letter to the city, the universe, and myself.
To the Everyday Romantic
Life is rich with possibilities for romanticizing, though it rarely presents perfection on a silver platter. I’ve always told myself:
If you don’t see the beauty you seek, create it.
People often wait for magic to happen to them—for the perfect moment, the right person, the special occasion. But I've learned that sometimes, the most meaningful magic is the kind we create ourselves.
Intentional magic isn't about grand gestures or elaborate plans; sometimes it's as simple as making a reservation for one at a beautiful restaurant, or buying yourself flowers for no reason at all. Other times it means running through the rain for a perfect baguette or watching champagne bubbles dance while the world gets drenched around you.
There's a common misconception that self-romance is somehow selfish or indulgent. But I've found it to be quite the opposite—it's a form of self-preservation, a way of keeping your sense of wonder alive.
When you nurture your own capacity for finding beauty all around you, you become more capable of sharing it with others. We must learn to express our joy (or happiness, sense of meaning, or whatever else), even when we're alone.
Perhaps especially when we’re alone.
The real art lies in finding the balance: knowing when to orchestrate beautiful moments and when to let them unfold naturally. Yes, I deliberately chose the museum, the flowers, and the cafe, but I couldn't have planned finding the neon-washed bar along the Seine, or the young Parisians who sang along with me.
In the end, while we can’t curate everything, we can become our own Amélie—heightening our experiences and turning ordinary moments into magical ones. And sometimes, when life has dimmed our light, these small acts of intentional magic become more than just beautiful moments; they become breadcrumbs leading us back to ourselves.