Let’s talk about love stories that feel like they were written by someone who’s never actually been in love. There’s a certain predictability to them—a formula that’s been polished to a mirror sheen over decades. But here’s the thing: Paris is Always a Good Idea isn’t just another entry in that tired playbook. It’s a case study in how modern rom-coms are trying to outsmart themselves by pretending to subvert tropes while still leaning into them. And honestly? It’s a bit of a masterclass in contradictions.
Take Chelsea Martin, the protagonist whose quest to find love in Paris is less about romance and more about reckoning with grief. Her journey isn’t just about choosing between three men; it’s about figuring out what kind of person she wants to be when the world keeps throwing her curveballs. The show’s genius—or its fatal flaw, depending on your perspective—is that it treats her emotional arc like a choose-your-own-adventure book, only to realize halfway through that the real adventure was never about the men at all.
Let’s unpack the so-called ‘love triangle’ because, honestly, it’s not a triangle. It’s a pyramid. At the base are Colin and Sebastian, the two European suitors who exist primarily to be discarded. They’re the kind of characters who make you wonder if the writers were paid by a dating app to create profiles that scream ‘not the one.’ Then there’s Marcos, the billionaire with a castle in Spain who tries to win Chelsea over by auctioning off his sports car. Oh, how I laughed at the sheer audacity of that move. It’s the equivalent of a man trying to impress a woman by burning his passport and saying, ‘See? I’m free now!’
But here’s where the show gets interesting. Jason Knightly, the ACC colleague who’s supposed to be the ‘rival’ but ends up being the actual love interest, is the only character who doesn’t feel like a placeholder. His financial struggles, his sister’s soccer club, his internal monologue about whether he’s worthy of Chelsea’s attention—it all adds texture. He’s the anti-Marcos, the guy who doesn’t need a castle to prove his worth. And yet, the show makes you question why he was sidelined for so long. Is it because he’s ‘relatable,’ or is it because the writers were too scared to let a protagonist choose someone who isn’t rich and glamorous? Personally, I think it’s the latter. We live in a world where ‘relatable’ is code for ‘boring,’ and Knightly’s arc is a reminder that sometimes, the most compelling love stories are the ones that don’t follow the script.
Then there’s the ending. Chelsea chooses Knightly, but not before a dramatic voice memo that lasts 14 minutes and 45 seconds. Because of course she does. It’s the kind of moment that makes you want to scream into the void: Why does every rom-com protagonist feel the need to turn their confession into a TED Talk? The scene is beautiful, yes, but it also feels like a desperate attempt to make the ending feel ‘earned’ when, in reality, the entire show was just waiting for her to admit she liked the guy who wasn’t the billionaire.
And what about the possibility of a second season? The actors hint at it, but let’s be real: Hallmark+ isn’t in the business of surprises. They’re in the business of delivering exactly what you expect—except when they’re not. The call from Rhyland at the end is the kind of dangling thread that makes you wonder if the show is trying to trick us into wanting more. But here’s the rub: If they do return, they’ll have to do something truly radical to avoid becoming just another entry in the ‘Paris is always a good idea’ trope factory. Otherwise, we’ll be stuck with more billionaires, more voice memos, and more love triangles that aren’t actually triangles at all.
In the end, Paris is Always a Good Idea is a reminder that love stories are only as good as the people telling them. And right now, the people telling them are still stuck in a loop of their own making. But maybe that’s okay. After all, if the show’s message is that love requires you to confront your past and your fears, then maybe the real lesson isn’t about choosing between Marcos and Knightly—it’s about choosing to stop writing stories that feel like they were written by someone else.
