This is the Paris I recognize—crisp, fresh air, blue skies and sun interrupting the perpetual string of grey, moody, cloudy days with which we have become all too familiar.

France experiences ‘unprecedented’ winter with storms, major floods and rainfall.

February marked the wettest month ever recorded in France since measurements began in 1959, surpassing 1970. For the entire winter, rainfall was 35% above average, making it the eighth-wettest season since records began. (Le Monde)

Imagine that, my first winter in Paris and it rained almost every day. But the rain has ended. Spring has officially arrived and like the flowers blooming on Avenue Trudaine, I am coming out of hibernation.

I have settled into my quotidian life in a way that makes it hard to remember how disorienting this city used to be. It no longer scares me. It feels right. Elements of the culture still elude me, certainly, I am not European, but generally I feel connected to the underlying rhythm rather than at odds with it—as I so often did in Los Angeles.

Perhaps that is a factor of age. I’m sure that’s part of it. But I also have to believe I am experiencing the euphoria of being in alignment. Is this Nirvana?

Last night I walked around Montmartre during golden hour. I wanted to get out of the apartment and profit du soleil. I walked to the garden at the foot of Sacre Cœur and climbed to the landing that looks up at the grass lawn, the basilica stretching directly above me against a bright blue sky.

I walked down the western steps toward the Halle de Saint-Pierre and around the pedestrian street as the tourist train rounded the corner. A mother crossed the street holding her daughter’s hand and the young girl screamed with joy as the train conductor rang the bell.

I continued down Rue André del Sarte walking past the APC surplus store, averting my eyes from the red, blue, green dots denoting which items were on sale and at what percentage they were discounted. It’s better not to know. I turned left on Rue Feutrier and started to climb, up and up then around and as I turned the corner I noticed a man was very close behind me on the sidewalk. I must have looked startled, because I was, and because shortly after I turned around he crossed to the other side of the street.

Rue Feutrier took me back to the park and put me out by Au Butte du Soleil, a bistrot favored by my friend Hugo, apparently, or so he told me a couple weeks prior when we walked this same path on the way back to my apartment after spending 40 euros on a Norwegian waffle and smoked salmon on toast.

As I rounded the back of the basilica I discover Parc de la Turlure, a small park with a few benches situated around a green space and a colonnade of ivy that covers stone benches. I laughed because I have spent the better part of a week that has been characterized by the exact kind of breathtakingly beautiful weather that had me itching to get out of the house today complaining about the lack of parks in the 9e/18e arrondissements. Among the litany of cons, many of which can be attributed in one way or another to every neighborhood, this is what people will tell you when you decide to move to this northern central Parisian arrondissement.

“It’s far,” but that’s relative, it prompts the obvious followup, “far from what?” “It’s expensive,” but then so is everywhere, and while it is true that the sidewalks are flooded with 2500€ prams and the bourgeois families who push them with little regard for their surroundings, the universal truth also applies, that there’s a high and low to every market. Which is to say, you can always find a deal.

But chief among the 9e arrondissement slander is the inescapable refrain, “there are no parks!” In a city as beautiful and as vegetalisé as Paris, why would one choose to live anywhere without abundant access to one of the increasingly accessible green spaces the city has to offer? “There are no parks” they will tell you and that there are no parks is a lie, because while it is certainly true that these small enclaves that encircle Sacre Cœur don’t hold a candle to Luxembourg or Tuileries, they do exist! There are, as it turns out, plenty of places for one to sit with a book and a snack or the paper and a coffee and enjoy the approaching Spring/Summer sun.

I exited the park, swinging the small gate behind me and the bells began to ring. I rounded the basilica, the closest I’ve been to the bell tower, certainly at this time, and I tried to make sense of the majesty, the splendor — what’s a word that can accurately articulate the dissonance between modern life and this centuries old stone edifice towering above me, mere meters from my apartment, and clanging so loudly passersby have to yell for their conversations to be heard?

Am I even able to internalize this? Am I able to process this experience on any level other than subconscious? Am I meant to drown in immense gratitude as perpetual penance for the fortune of building a life in Paris?

There was a man on the steps of Scare Cœur playing piano to a crowd of tourists who have gathered. He faced the basilica, Paris his backdrop. He sang “Hey There Deliliah” and I watched from behind the wall of padlocks affixed by tourists in love, I imagine. The cardboard sign in front of his keyboard read: Pierre Musik. I shuffled to a more central location to get a panorama photo of Paris from this iconic angle which, having lived in Montmartre for 10 months, I had never seen.

Pierre Musik played “Riptide” by Vance Joy and the crowd sang along. I was among the throng, surrounded by every language but French. I felt a desire to signal that I am not one of them. I am a local, even if only in the most literal sense—a rent-paying resident of the quartier but of course I am not a “local.” I am as much a guest as anyone else on these steps.

I turned to my left and caught a man reaching towards the opening of my tote. We made eye contact and he froze. I smiled and walked away. If only he knew I had nothing to steal.

I reached the top of the stairs on Rue Saint Éleuthère and as I took a photo of Parisian rooftops stacked against a view of Paris that stretches to the horizon under a cloudless sky of blue, green, orange, my phone died.

There is something here about possession. Put your phone down, touch grass, experience the bells as they ring without the impulse to record them. I am so overwhelmed by the embarrassment of riches I experience living in this city that I feel compelled to capture it in one way or another.

When Fran Lebowitz is asked what it takes to become a New Yorker, which she often is, she shares a surprisingly liberal definition. Where some believe the identity can only be inherited, not earned, Fran believes “you’re really a New Yorker the first time you complain that something’s changed.” I’m providing attribution to this one interview though I’ve heard her say this numerous times but only because I very publicly misquoted her on a red carpet once and I will never make that mistake again. Behind this definition is a broader sentiment that being a New Yorker is more of a sensibility than an inheritance. I have not lived in Paris long enough to presume to define what a Parisian is, or who gets to identify as one, but I can report that I have heard many definitions and none of them are this inclusive. There is perhaps a type of person who believes if there is a Parisian sensibility that one could adopt it is reflected in a way of life that is cosmopolitan—artful and international, cultured and stylish—but even this definition reflects a contemporary Paris with which many are at odds or at the very least reluctant to embrace.

Don’t worry, I’m very aware I’m not Parisian. I’m just a person who currently lives in Paris and honestly, that’s enough for me.

I’m pulling again, I admit to my friend, who is seated next to me at a dinner party in Gramercy.

He whispers back, Gwyneth would be proud.  

And I think to myself, perhaps she would, Gwyneth, our eternal champion of experimental modalities.

It is true. I have returned to the Wellness trend known as “oil pulling” wherein one places coconut oil into one’s mouth and moves it around. I’m struggling to find the best way to articulate the process, I am at a loss for words that accurately describe both the experience and the sensation. 

The initial shock is the worst part. If you are a masochist like I am, the coconut oil will enter your mouth solid and unflavored, and it will begin to melt as it’s chewed. Then the pulling begins. 

It is called “pulling” because that is what one does—“pulls” the liquid oil through the teeth, back, forth, and round, for anywhere from five to fifteen minutes. 

The science behind this practice eludes me and there are varying opinions about how this treatment can be applied and whether or not it actually works at all. The myriad benefits listed on various (non-peer reviewed) internet sources claim oil pulling pulls toxins through the gums and into the oil which is then expelled into the trash taking all manner of contaminants with it. 

Before I list the alleged benefits I must first underline two key rules:

First: Never swallow! 

Second: The oil must always go into the trash, never down a drain!

The explanation for the latter is rather obvious—the coconut oil, transformed by the puller's internal body temperature, returns to its solid state once discarded, taking up permanent residence in the bowels of your pipes and wreaking havoc on your drainage system. 

The reason behind the former gets to the heart of the thing. Coconut oil itself would be harmless, though I’m not in the habit of swallowing tablespoons full of any kind of oil unless slathered on bread and heavily salted, but if the process works at all, that is to say, if the coconut oil really is summoning from the corporeal nooks and crannies one’s invisible, internal contagions, then once pulled, the toxins must be purged. To swallow the contaminated oil would therefore defeat the purpose of pulling in the first place. 

If one is curious as to the benefits of this process one need only ask, for I have found, the Wellness space is not for want of experts and practitioners with all manner of explanations for the benefits of this treatment or that. As my dinner party companion accurately identified, I was initially alerted to this process by Gwyneth in 2014 when holistic treatments were a main component of my quotidian Southern Californian existence. The People Magazine headline read,

“We Tried It: Oil Pulling (Because Gwyneth Paltrow Told Us To)” 

The piece, published on March 27, 2014, chronicled an editor’s experience with the trend which was, at the time, cutting edge—or at the very least, newly popularized by the Wellness mogul. People Style Editor Brittany Talarico classified pulling as “an ancient Ayurvedic dental remedy”. Noted benefits included, “boost oral health, whiten teeth, detoxify the body and improve your complexion.”

The top-level explanation in this article also notes that sunflower and sesame oils are sufficient alternatives but I cannot, I WILL NOT, engage in seed oil discourse. 

Among the reasons for why she wanted to try it, Talarico noted the trend’s many celebrity proselytizers, including Shailene Woodley, and Paltrow’s influence, “seriously, if GOOP says so…” 

What follows is an honest account of Talarico’s, ultimately successful?, attempt to incorporate the trend into her daily routine, a narrative arc with which I’m incredibly familiar: the initial excitement, the hope that this is perhaps the new solution or remedy one has been missing, the challenge of engaging with the reality of the trend which feels as silly as it sounds, the slight shame or embarrassment that comes with being someone who is both interested in holistic remedies and contains any amount of self-awareness, the realization that the projected benefit is perhaps impossible to measure, “ I’m not exactly sure how to gauge the removal of toxins” and finally the acceptance that whether or not it actually works, one can’t help but feel at least a little better having tried. 

My re-engagement with the practice is a vestige of that 2014 life, an instinct I have no desire to release, the instinct to heal.

It is now 2023, nearly a decade after my initial introduction to oil pulling and once again Gwyneth is espousing its virtues in headlines. Has she been doing it this whole time? Anyone with even a base level understanding of Goop knows that Gwyn is not for want of access to remedies and holistic solutions. Sure, her skin is phenomenal, of course she remains radiant and gorgeous, her teeth a brilliant shade of white, but just as Talarico was unable to measure the toxins before and after pulling, how are we meant to identify which elements of her beauty are a result of the coconut oil routine and which are just the result of having so much money? What is the process of attribution here? 

In July, British Vogue published a piece titled, “Gwyneth Paltrow on Ageing, Oil Pulling, and Why “Stacking” Is Key to Great Skin” 

Just below a disclaimer about affiliate links, the article’s preface reads,

“as the unrivaled queen of wellness, Gwyneth Paltrow advocated for a holistic approach to health long before everyone on Instagram was doing it. Now, the Goop founder talks to British Vogue’s acting senior beauty and wellness editor, Hannah Coates, about welcoming the aging process, her sauna, and how she unwinds at the end of a stressful day.” 

The introductory quote from Gwyneth in response to a question about how she begins her day reads, “The first thing I do is get up. I do Ayurvedic oil pulling and tongue scraping, and then I brush my teeth. After that, I meditate with my husband.” 

I have come to this piece to get Gwyneth’s update on the practice I’ve abandoned and rediscovered only to find three other practices, meditation, which I’ve been neglecting, tongue scraping, which I forgot I’m supposed to do, and “stacking” which I’ve never even heard of. 

I’m now six weeks into my return to pulling. I’m pulling daily and I’ve gone from five to fifteen minutes. The taste hasn’t gotten any better, nor the experience any easier. I can say my teeth seem generally whiter, I guess, though I also admittedly use whitening toothpaste.

Just like Talarico, I wouldn’t even know how to begin measuring my toxin levels, I had no idea of them before and I have no idea of them now. I think my breath stays fresh longer and my mouth feels generally cleaner.

There is an added benefit that I didn’t see listed anywhere on the internet so I’ll note it here: at the end of fifteen minutes of pulling, my lips are well-moisturized. This is no small feat, as a person who buys the Burt’s Bees four pack so as to carry a stick in every jacket or bag I am very pleased with this particular side effect. That’s something, right? 

I’ll keep doing it because why not? I bought the jar, I might as well use it. 

The  woman ushering me through my treatment is young, younger than I am. She places both hands on the covering and pushes down, leveraging her body weight and sealing the hyperbaric chamber in which I will remain, horizontal, for the next 30 minutes, alone with my thoughts and Didion’s “In Hollywood.” 

By both luck and a bit of circumstance, I have stumbled into a series of complimentary treatments at Remedy Place. Outside, the streets are slick with rain and the air carries a chaotic post-work-day energy. I push through the rush hour throngs, narrowly avoiding puddles and a cab driver who attempts to run a red, and I think, as I have countless times before, “I could really use a spa day.” 

Remedy Place is a new age spa whose substantial offering falls squarely into the category of capital “W” Wellness with treatments from ice baths and lymphatic compression to breathwork and soundbath meditation. A brief scan of the list is dizzying even for me, a recovering Californian who has spent the last decade chasing modalities most people “back East” had never heard of. 

One wonders, for example, as to the benefits of “24K gold ear seed” and the method by which that treatment is implemented. 

Ask after the purpose of any given treatment and one is met with a scientific explanation that seems sufficient. With limited knowledge of reparative therapies or somatic intricacies one is left simply nodding and thinking, “I suppose that makes sense.” And even if it didn’t, the sheer intrigue of these remedies with their magical properties is enough to capture the imagination of even the most skeptical among us, for behind every new modality is the simple desire for answers to the unanswerable. Is something wrong with me? What is the magic solution? Why am I always tired? 

Today, I am at the Flatiron location, “7k square feet” of slate grey and concrete “dedicated to social self-care.” 

This location on West 21st Street is the company’s first in New York. When I mention it to New York friends I am met with blank stares but when I text an LA friend I’m informed that he may have gone on a date with the owner and there, among the brutalist interior design, I realize why it’s familiar. This is a place people on my Instagram feed come to heal. The people to whom I’m referring are, of course, extreme athletes of the Olympic variety and the kind of muscular gay men whose daily workouts include lifting tires above their heads and throwing them back down. 

This is a temple for those who worship at the altar of Wim Hof and for whom the need for rapid recovery is not only convenient but required. I am not one of these people. 

The most physical activity I have accomplished before I arrive at 6pm this evening is the commute from Brooklyn. 

I meet Chas at the bar. I have been invited to this special event by their company Tape, a new venture that endeavors to remove the friction between New Yorkers and the things they want to do—events, experiences, concerts, etc. Today, as a benefit from the partnership between Tape and Remedy Place, we too will endeavor to heal. 

We exchange pleasantries over a non-alcoholic spirit that is meant to promote immunity and brain activity. They give me a tour of the facility noting a row of beds for IV treatments and the chiropractic studio. We wander downstairs and Chas points to their friend Miles who sits on the other side of a glass wall and a mesh curtain on an elevated platform. He breathes intentionally and in synchronized motion with two others in the room, raises onto his hands and plunges himself into the metal tub of ice water next to him. 

My first treatment is Cryotherapy—three and a half minutes in an enclosed chamber that has been lowered to -180 degrees Fahrenheit. The practitioner informs me that I will be provided with a robe, gloves, and slides. I will also be provided with a pair of headphones to listen to a song of my choice, “to help pass the time.” 

I’m ushered into a changing room. My “robe” is a yard of terry cloth that when wrapped around the waist falls mid-thigh. I ask if I should keep on my shirt and she tells me, “the more skin you have exposed, the more effective the treatment.” And so there I stand, for three and a half minutes, with my tits out, in an ice box lowered to -180F, listening to Vroom Vroom by Charli XCX. 

When I emerge I am reborn—or at the very least tingling. 

I redress and I am escorted to the hyperbaric chamber, a metal cyllinder that resembles a futuristic coffin or some sort of spaceship emergency escape pod. There is a tube at the top through which air flows, raising the internal pressure to the equivalent of 3 atmospheres, or a depth of 33ft (10m) in seawater, or 14.7 pounds per square inch. Whatever that means. 

She lifts the cover and tells me, “it’s best to enter by placing your right knee and right elbow into the chamber and then rolling in. Be careful of your back.” I repeat this choreography aloud before attempting. Right knee, right elbow, and then roll. I flop down and she smiles at me, “great job.” 

“Before you begin,” she asks, “do you have any questions?” 

“Yes. What is this for?” 

She runs me through the benefits of hyperbaric chamber treatment: strengthened immunity and blood flow, accelerated muscle repair, and 70% oxygenation of the blood. She informs me that their chamber is, “just below medical grade” and that after the combo of these two treatments, I should feel a natural high. 

“Here’s hoping.” 

As she closes the chamber I think about that phrase, just below medical grade, delivered with the cadence of a server repeating the daily specials or a telemarketer reciting a script. I feel as though this is meant to have some sort of significance to me but I am unable to discern what it is. I can hear the copy rolling around in the marketing team’s brainstorm as the chamber fills with pressure, one atmosphere at a time, my ears popping along the way, I can almost see the words tinkering and toiling on a shared Google doc. 

Just below medical grade. 

Once my ears settle, I crack open Joan. I have reached “In Hollywood,” Joan’s essay in The White Album about that place on the other side of the continent and the industry that dominates it, with its language, its rhythms, its delusions. Through this pressurized chamber, I have entered a liminal space between Los Angeles and New York, my old home and my new. The pressure mounts and I begin to cry. The practitioner mentioned this might happen. The hyperbaric chamber brings to the surface what lies dormant beneath. What is revealed to me, in this pressurized tube off West 21st Street, is just how far I am from that old life. 

We aren’t In Hollywood anymore. 

Thirty minutes pass and the cover is lifted revealing a new technician, a blonde boy with kind blue eyes. He is young, younger than I am. As the pressure recalibrates, I wonder if it worked. I wonder if I am healed.  

He tells me to, “come out the way you went in” and I attempt to reverse the maneuver to the best of my ability: leg and arm first and a roll, this time against gravity. The result is me flat on the floor, prostrate before the twink technician. He reaches down to help me up. 

He asks me how I feel as I continue my internal inventory. How do I feel? Healed? Recovered? I mostly feel like 30 minutes of pressurized isolation is a fraction of what I really need. I realize I don’t know what to expect (what does 70% more oxygenated blood feel like?) but I do notice that I can’t stop talking. 

As I gather myself and my belongings, I tell him about my life, my travels, the reason I’m here, both at Remedy Place today and broadly in New York this season, and he patiently listens with a pleasant if not vacant expression.

He tells me he just moved here from Florida and I ask him if he had a reason. He tells me he was just looking for something new, a new energy, a new community, queer or otherwise, a new life. I ask him if he’s found it. He tells me he’s hopeful and I notice I’m smiling. 

It is fitting that this fresh faced optimist is propelled by hope. We are, after all, in a spa. Hope is the undercurrent behind all of these treatments which range from holistic to borderline science fiction. Hope that extreme cold will ground me in my body. Hope that I will emerge after 30 minutes in the hyperbaric chamber with a newfound perspective on life, that the source of all my problems has been the lack of oxygen in my blood. 

Chas, Miles, and I exit into the chaos of West 21st street. Chas turns to me and asks, “do you feel different?” 

I think about it for a second and I smile, “yeah, I think I do.” 

It is, admittedly, circumstantial. 

When I left for Europe at the beginning of the year I weighed the most that I ever have. I only know this because moments before heading to the airport I used my mother’s trick for confirming your checked bag doesn’t incur fees: first, one steps on a scale to receive a base number, then one steps …

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Ask me to describe nirvana and I would likely produce a list that would include a number of the experiences I had this week. 

My In-N-Out order 
The Bridget Jones Trilogy 
Doodle cuddles 
Gender theory 
Pre-deadline work submissions
Binaural audio playlists 

Ask me if I’m happy an…

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