From Perth to Paris

Seven years ago, if you’d told me I’d one day live in Paris—one of the most mythologised cities in the world—I would have laughed.

And yet, here I am: in a compact apartment where the morning light beams through tall windows onto the parquet floor, over a view of mansard roofs perfectly aligned—living every cliché I was once convinced was marketing fiction.

The old spiral staircase, worn smooth by decades of footsteps, clicks and clacks beneath my loafers as I descend and step out onto a tree-lined avenue on the Left Bank. On the crisp air drifts a trace of some anonymous perfume, mingling in improbable harmony with the scent of toasted butter (undoubtedly of croissant-baking origin).

I order an allongée at Café au Petit Suisse. The terrace chairs face outward toward the Luxembourg Gardens, and I linger—longer than the garçon would prefer: tables are to be set for lunch at 11 a.m. sharp.

A young woman in Alaïa ballet flats walks her peppy dachshund; a beret-and-trench-clad man saunters past, his face blurred by cigarette smoke; and a woman of a certain age, in her insouciant ensemble of Chanel tweed jacket and vintage chinos, hails a taxi and disappears up Rue de Vaugirard as the bells of nearby Saint-Placide begin to toll in unhurried rhythm.

And there you have it — my Paris, in brief.

An Unlikely Beginning

So how did I get here?

In my early thirties in Perth, Australia, I was dutifully climbing the corporate ladder as a commercial lawyer. Today I can confidently say I was never cut out for the nine-to-five life behind a desk, but back then, I couldn’t see another option just yet.

I tried to balance the mundanity of office life with creative outlets, and alongside my legal career I started a fashion blog—originally called Closet Voyage (for those who still remember!) and later rebranded Beige Renegade, coinciding with the advent of Instagram.

As the blog began to gain traction, I watched my American and European counterparts doing something called “going to fashion week,” and aspired to it as a career goal, without really understanding what it even was.

“Paris was apparently the capital of fashion, but for little Jiawa Liu from Perth, that destination might as well have been going to Mars with a paddle boat.”

Unwitting Love Affair with the City

One day, an email arrived: an invitation to a fashion show in the northern hemisphere.

It seemed unbelievable that someone across the world had noticed my work. So I did something completely irrational for a serious lawyer: I booked a flight to a city I’d never been to, where I knew no one, to attend a show for a brand I’d never heard of, all alone to boot. (Aptly, I ended up stuck in traffic that day and missed the show entirely.)

What I expected even less than that invitation was that I would fall in love — with Paris.

I was never one to romanticise France, already rendered too cynical by the mountains of what I believed to be hyperbolised Hollywood and advertising propaganda touting it as some kind of holy land of sophistication, chicness, and—dare I say it—je ne sais quoi. I figured, as reality always tends to do, the real Paris would fall far short of any media representation, and be no more interesting than my home, Perth.

“I was never one to romanticise France… I figured the real Paris would fall far short of any media representation.”

But on a crisp autumn morning, I stepped out of my Airbnb onto the tiny streets of the 9th arrondissement, where every café terrace was alive: people deep in conversation, others alone with their books, no one in a hurry—takeaway coffee not being a thing.

I wandered through vast, stately gardens and among great reflecting pools, where, in the jumble of park chairs and flower-laden hedges, people lounged and lingered, unapologetically enjoying life.

How wrong I had been.

The Flâneur

I’d heard the French word flâneur before, but in the Anglo world it’s often used pejoratively—lazy, idle, unambitious.

I, of course, thought myself to be all these words due to my inability to feel enthusiasm for my desk job like everybody else seemed to do so easily. Imagine my vindication when I learned the true meaning of this word.

The poet Charles Baudelaire wrote that a flâneur is a “passionate spectator” of life—someone who experiences the city both as participant and observer, reflecting and reinterpreting it into one’s own expression.

“Is it that flâneurs are drawn to Paris, or that Paris makes one a flâneur? I was both.”

That word alone explained what I had seen on that very first day.

A Brave New Life

My mind was made up in that one short week.

Once back in Australia, I plotted my return—permanently. For months, I poured myself into my blog (by then evolved into an Instagram influencer career), took extended unpaid leave, and left for a full month in Paris, supported by a handful of brand projects.

Long story short, one month turned to many, and I quit my job entirely and never left.

Moving countries also meant reinventing my career. Since arriving in Paris, I have grown my social-media profile and worked as an influencer, taking advantage of the city’s endlessly cinematic backdrop to create the aspirational content my followers and brand partners seemed to love.

But things evolved.

I became a contributing editor for Vogue Australia and Harper’s Bazaar Singapore, attending countless fashion weeks in this capacity; then a creative director working with luxury brands worldwide; by 2019, I had founded my own creative agency, Beige Pill.

And now, soon-to-be published writer—more on that very soon.

“Long story short, one month turned to many, and I quit my job entirely and never left.”

Things to Come

What about the language barrier? Finding an apartment? Were Parisians as rude as their reputation suggests? Did the Parisian magic fade once the honeymoon period was over? How does one build a life from scratch in a foreign country?

These are the questions I’ll be exploring in this new Substack—alongside my favourite addresses, gardens, restaurants, and quiet corners that reveal the intimate, hidden, and unexpected sides of the city behind its famous bustle and grandeur.

(Insert Image 3 — portrait of you working or walking in the city, natural and candid)

In the posts to come, I’ll introduce you to my Paris—the Paris I discovered and fell in love with. A Paris seen through local eyes, yet one that never loses the sense of wonder only an outsider can truly feel.

Glossaire Parisien

A glossary, for the French bits I sprinkled in to sound clever — translated.

allongée — literally “lengthened”; a long black coffee, gentler than an espresso but still distinctly Parisian.

garçon — literally “boy,” but in cafés it simply means waiter — though don’t actually call him that; monsieur works perfectly in all situations.

boulangerie — bakery; the heart (or hearts, really) of every Paris neighbourhood.

arrondissement — one of Paris’s twenty districts, each with its own architecture, rhythm, and charm.

Left Bank (Rive Gauche) — technically denoting the southern side of the Seine. However, when Parisians (and especially writers, artists, and historians) speak of la Rive Gauche, they usually mean the 5th and 6th arrondissements, and sometimes the 7th by extension — the bohemian and intellectual heart of Paris, home to artists, writers, and philosophers. Conversely, the north side of the Seine is known as the Right Bank (Rive Droite), though in practice Parisians more often refer to its individual neighbourhoods than use the term itself.

Saint-Placide — a 17th-century parish church (and metro stop) on the Left Bank, built in understated classical style and known for its gentle presence and softly tolling bells.

Alaïa — Azzedine Alaïa, the late Tunisian-born couturier and Parisian icon, adored for his sculptural designs yet famously private, always preferring the atelier to the spotlight.

Rue de Vaugirard — one of Paris’s longest streets, stretching through the 6th arrondissement and the heart of the Left Bank.

je ne sais quoi — literally “I don’t know what” in French; used in English to describe that indefinable French allure, though ironically, it’s practically unheard of for French people to use it in this sense.

Paris, for me, isn’t just a place—it’s a way of seeing.

Through this newsletter, I hope to share that way of seeing with you: a slower, more intentional, and more intimate Paris.

If you’ve ever dreamed of this city—or simply want to see it anew—I invite you to subscribe below and walk alongside me: one story, one flânerie, one discovery at a time.