American/Canadian N.A. Narayan’s frank, first-person account of living on her own in Paris for the last 7 years after a job opportunity in Burundi fell through reveals how race, class, and the way one approaches living somewhere create separate worlds within the same city. Her Paris isn’t the Paris of expat parties, Instagrammable cafés, and “hidden gems”, but of strategic grocery runs, affordable daily living, and the slow work of building a life rather than documenting or curating one.
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I’ve spent seven years in Paris, but I’ve never called myself an expat. Even though I’m raised in the US and living in France, I’m definitely seen as an immigrant. White people don’t see me as an expat. I don’t fit into their communities.
It’s a distinction that shapes the rhythm of my daily life. While others jet between continents with casual ease, I stayed put for six-and-a-half years before my first trip back to the US. I feel like I really was making this a home and I’m not using it as “I live in cool Paris.”
Unless I open my mouth, they don’t know that I’m foreign-born. If I keep my mouth closed, I’m just another brown person. But that’s the South Asian immigrant way, right? Especially taught to me by my parents’ generation. Assimilation. I like the anonymity.
I can go entire days without speaking to anyone, while navigating a city that reads my body differently than my passport suggests. The complexity of my identity—American-born-and-raised, dual US-and-Canadian-citizen, South Asian-looking, French-speaking—creates a shifting matrix of how I’m perceived and treated in public spaces.
A Chai Friend
When I tried to join expat social circles, I discovered the unspoken boundaries quickly. Through a friend who embraced the expat identity, I attended a movement and dance meetup. It was very clear that I was not the person they wanted there. I can’t explain it. I just felt very unwelcome.
When I asked about future gatherings, my perception appeared to be correct, as my friend gently redirected: “Oh, well, it’s just us now. I think I’m going to keep that as the thing that I do with those people. And we can have one-on-one time.” The boundaries were respectfully drawn—I had become the “ethnic friend to have chai with.”
I think there are people who go see the world as a bucket list. And there are people who are a bit nomadic and want to see more and see how much they can get from a place. And then there are people who just settle into places to see how the place changes them.
Expats seem to concern themselves with, “How do we make this Parisian lifestyle? How do we get more from this,” but I keep thinking “How do I integrate into where I live and be a part of that?” I still live in the same studio apartment I rented in 2018—originally just a temporary base to learn French before heading to Burundi. Seven years later, it’s still home, not because I’m stuck but because I relate to this place differently.
Beneath the Politesse
Anyone who believes Paris transcends racial dynamics hasn’t been paying attention. Because racism is alive and well in France, I’m mostly ignored. I’d rather have that than the blatant stuff. People are under their breath, like, “Oh, you again, asking too much of something. Of course, you always want more.”
The microaggressions are there—people holding their purses tighter when you walk through Goutte d’Or or La Chapelle, service delays while white customers are attended to, the constant calculation of whether my American accent might shift the interaction. I remember Faith [editor of Decolonising Travel] was visiting, and we watched all the white diners receive their orders while ours was forgotten. When we complained, the server insisted she wasn’t being racist even before apologising for our forgotten order, while a family with loudly screaming children openly disapproved of us standing up for ourselves.
Even my British boyfriend—he’s covered in tattoos and looks a certain way—navigates the city differently. He gets better treatment than I do based on being white and his particular presence. He’s like, “Well, maybe they were just having a bad day.” And I’m like, “No, they’re not having a bad day with me and a good one with you.”
Immigrant Economics vs. Expat Aesthetics
There is a lot of comfort in knowing I can just go two more blocks to the right to get cilantro for 1€ euro versus going two blocks to the left where it’s 3€. That’s immigrant versus expat life. I don’t need the 500€ hair salon over the 35€.
While expats always seem to be scouting better apartments and arrondissements, asking “How’s the view?” I’ve learned how to find what I need within my means, which neighbourhoods serve my community rather than tourists hunting for “authentic” experiences.
I think immigrants hustle for real. And I was definitely hustling in my community to get to know people better and get to be a regular and be accepted. But not “How do I make the fact that I live in Paris my thing, my personality?”
What tickles me about expats is everything that’s normal is suddenly brand new. Every little something is a “hidden gem.” No, that’s the Sri Lankan grocery store. This “discovery” has real costs. La Chapelle, my neighbourhood known for South Asian food, increasingly attracts influencer attention. I want my 2€ paratha and curry, and you’re going to make it seven. I mean, it’s good—immigrant vendors should make more money, but now the people who live here can’t eat here. The Latin Quarter used to be where Sorbonne students actually lived. Now it’s all wealthy foreign investors buying pieds-à-terre. Students commute from 20 kilometres outside the city—priced out of their own university district.
Geography of Becoming
For all its challenges, Paris has given me something valuable: space to discover who I am. My family’s not here. My partner is in England. I’m the only person in France. I got tougher here. I learned to have boundaries. I don’t get mad over little things anymore.
Paris became where I figure myself out, where I build resilience without my usual support system. I can retreat to my studio, shop quietly, visit my partner, see friends when the mood strikes. I kind of roam the city as a participant. I participate in the city, but it’s not the glamorous way where we have picnic blanket meetups, or just went to the influencer-approved party. It’s a different kind of integration.
I’ve always felt like this city is ours. I love when people come to Paris. I’m like, “What can I show you?” But I also don’t have a list of 50 must-sees for us to do. I’m like, “Let’s just see where it takes us.”
When I show people around, it’s never planned. When Faith visited for barely 24 hours, we ended up eating African food at Gare du Nord and getting her hair cut at a local barber who was genuinely baffled that a woman wanted her head shaved. These weren’t curated cultural experiences, just happy accidents.
Building a Life, Slowly
The community I initially built came from French classes and halting conversations with fellow immigrants—Chinese, Indian, Spanish speakers all fumbling toward fluency together. Sadly, the pandemic scattered this informal network.
My closest friend in Paris now is a white American woman who works as a pâtissière, married a French woman, is woven into local culture—but who has never once called herself an expat. So, I guess it’s not really about passport colours or legal status, but about a particular relationship to place and privilege.
It feels like I get to be my truest self here. It’s a quiet life but still very full. Maybe because you’re in Paris and you don’t get to be upset—it’s people’s dream to come here.
