Paris.

The name alone conjures images of sparkling Eiffel Tower nights, quaint bakeries filled with buttery delights, and romantic walks along the Seine. For most, Paris is a dream. A must-see. A city dripping with poetry and croissants. But for me? It’s a place I never want to return to. Not once. Not even to “reclaim” it.

It’s not because I don’t appreciate beauty. Or culture. Or the magic of French architecture and art. It’s because when I was just a small child—somewhere between the tender ages of three and four—Paris introduced itself to me. It left a mark far deeper than your average bad vacation. A mark that stung more than the burn of scalding hot cocoa. A mark that whispers, even now: “Don’t go back.”

And it all started with a pastry.

It was supposed to be a magical day. I was with my grandparents, my parents, and my Aunt Ann. A rare kind of full-family adventure, the kind that usually yields stories told at family dinners and weddings for decades. But in this case, those stories came wrapped in a little trauma, a little public shame, and a goose.

That’s right. A goose.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let’s start at the bakery.

Imagine little me, barely tall enough to see over the glass case, eyes wide at rows of pastries that looked like art. Towers of glazed fruit, puffed golden layers, chocolate drizzled over shiny custards. Heaven. My grandfather, gentle and kind, offered to treat me. So we walked in together. Just the two of us.

I knew exactly what I wanted. I pointed. I asked politely—at least as politely as a small American child can in a foreign country—and smiled. And that’s when it happened.

The woman behind the counter looked at me with a mix of disdain and irritation. Then she sneered. Actually sneered. Her lips curled upward. It was as if I had just asked her for permission to commit a crime. Instead, I had only asked for a pastry.

Then, without addressing me, she turned to my grandfather and said something sharp and pointed in French.

I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the tone. I understood enough to know I had just been made small.

My grandfather, who knew enough French to get by, gently guided me out of the shop. Once outside, he bent down to my level and said, “Let’s try again. I’ll teach you how to ask in French.” I was still stung, but I trusted him. I wanted to make it right. I wanted to earn that pastry.

So I practiced. Over and over, mimicking his words until I had it down. He smiled. I smiled. This was going to be my comeback.

We re-entered the bakery, and I took my place at the counter once more. Heart thumping, head high, I spoke the phrase I’d learned. I asked for the pastry. In French. Pourrais-je avoir un roulé à la cannelle?

And that’s when the bakery lady laughed.

Not just a snort. Not a chuckle. A full-on cackle. Then, she raised her voice and announced to everyone within earshot, “Tu as entendu ? Il parlait français comme un canard. Un canard.” She said I spoke French like a duck.

A duck.

I didn’t need translation this time. I understood enough to know that everyone was laughing at me, not with me. And at that age, the difference between the two feels like the entire world is tipping over.

I burst into tears.

My grandfather scooped me up and carried me out. I don’t remember whether I ever got that pastry. I just remember how I felt: embarrassed, humiliated, and suddenly very aware that trying sometimes isn’t enough.

It’s funny how a single moment, when you’re young, can shape your entire perception of a place. That day in the bakery planted a seed. A seed that said, “This place doesn’t want you.” And unfortunately, Paris kept watering it.

The next day, still a little tender from the public mockery, I was treated to a cup of hot cocoa. The kind of hot cocoa you’d expect from a French café—velvety, rich, and far too hot for a child’s mouth.

I took a sip without checking the temperature.

I don’t remember much about the burn, only that it hurt, and that my tongue felt like it had been punished for trusting something warm and sweet. At that point, Paris was two for two.

You might be wondering where the goose comes in.

That was the day after.

We were walking—my mother, me, and maybe others—when I saw it: a duck or goose. Some kind of feathery creature waddling along near a crosswalk. My young self was mesmerized. It was real, right there, in front of me, not in a pond or on a farm. It was Parisian. It had presence. I was enchanted.

So I followed it.

I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t even announce it. I simply bolted, chasing after it with wild abandon.

What I didn’t realize was that the duck—or goose—was heading across a very real, very active street. And I, oblivious to all adult warnings and traffic rules, was right behind it.

I barely remember the car. I remember the screeching sound, the yelling, the honking, the way time seemed to stop and speed up at the same time. I remember being yanked back at the last second. A mother’s reflex. Maybe a stranger’s helping hand. I don’t know.

But I was almost flattened in the City of Light chasing a bird.

At this point, Paris had become the setting of what felt like a series of child-sized tragedies. Each day offered some new humiliation or injury, some new lesson in embarrassment or physical pain. And the city wasn’t apologizing. It wasn’t gently saying, “Oops, my bad.” It was laughing. Mocking. Scalding. Threatening to run me over.

Is that dramatic? Maybe. But children don’t filter. We feel everything fully, all at once. And for me, Paris stopped being beautiful after that.

Instead of the grandeur of Notre-Dame or the sparkle of the Eiffel Tower, I remember scuffed shoes, tear-streaked cheeks, and that woman’s laugh. I remember the heat of the cocoa, the screech of tires, and the sting of being publicly belittled for trying to speak another language.

So when people gush about how badly they want to visit Paris, I smile politely. When someone suggests I should go back and make new memories, I nod and change the subject. Because there are some places you don’t need to reclaim. Some places leave a scar so oddly shaped that even healing around it means not revisiting the place that caused it.

I’ve traveled plenty since then. I’ve had moments of awe and joy in places far and wide. But that little duckling heart of mine, the one that tried to speak French and got laughed at, still whispers no when it hears “Paris.”

Maybe someday I’ll feel differently. Maybe I’ll return with different eyes, a thicker skin, and a backup pastry plan.

But today?

Today, I’m at peace never seeing the Eiffel Tower again.

Because the city of lights wasn’t kind to the child I used to be. And sometimes, that’s enough reason to stay away.