Every day you wake up with a choice: will today be a good day or a crummy day? Am I going to complain about the stubborn rain and cloying cold, the lack of sexy options hanging in my closet, and the extra five pounds that are stuck to my ass? That I have to get dressed and go to work despite the weather, my wardrobe, and big ass? Or am I going to be grateful? Am I going to focus on how lucky I am to have a job, that I have legs strong enough to carry me to work, and that I have a family who loves and supports me, expanding ass and all?

I’m not saying you can’t be in a bad mood or have bad days. Lord knows, I have my share. I’m a Scorpio, after all. If you don’t believe in astrology, all you have to do is ask one of my friends if “moody” and “mercurial” are apt descriptions of my personality or ask one of my cousins—bless their hearts—which one of us our grandmother called “sourpuss” (hint: it wasn’t any of them). But bad moods are exhausting. And if I learned anything in that long, dark winter in Paris it’s that sometimes if you change your attitude, life follows your lead.

One of my greater feats in Paris was finding an English-speaking GP who doubled as a gynecologist. Faking my way through transactions at the dry-cleaner or post office was one thing. But smiling with faux understanding, feet in cold metal stirrups, paper gown opened to reveal my whole front side, was just beyond my comfort and acting skills. Dr. Tippy was an English girl’s secret weapon in Paris, the referral generously passed on to me from Jo when I finally decided to address some “female issues” I was having.

“So then, how’re you doing?” Dr. Tippy asked in her clipped British accent. She was a fast talker. Even in the same tongue, I had a hard time catching just what the hell she was saying sometimes. And I wanted to be sure I heard every word she said today. It had been a good eight months since I’d had my period, and a couple weeks since I had come in for an exam and blood work. I wanted to know what was going on with my system. “Right, so I have the results to your blood tests,” she barreled on, rifling through the papers on her big wooden desk, not waiting for my response. “Hmmm, hmmm, that’s right,” she muttered to herself. I told the butterflies in my stomach to quit it, that everything was going to be okay.

She finally looked up at me through her large owl glasses. “It looks like your estrogen levels are really quite low,” her voice also starting to get low. My butterflies were now fluttering in a tizzy, Dr. Tippy’s conspiratorial tone making me nervous. It reminded me of that scene from St. Elmo’s Fire when everyone’s gathered at the dining room table and the mom whispers “cancer” because it’s too ugly a word to say out loud. Oh God, was that where our conversation was heading? Were my nonexistent periods—something I had obviously known wasn’t right but was one less thing I had to deal with these past trying months—something more serious? More ominous? Dr. Tippy was glancing back down at her papers, voice now so low, she was purring. “They’re almost nonexistent, actually.”

She continued talking, throwing out the names of female hormones—LH, FSH, progesterone—but I could barely hear her above the shrieking inside my head. What the fuck? What the FUCK? This was all my fault. I knew I had ovarian cysts when I came to Paris. My super high-tech New York gyno had pointed them out to me on the sonogram screen and told me the first point of action in treating this “polycystic ovary syndrome” was going on the pill. That was three days before flying off to a new life in Paris. I had shoes and books to pack. People and bakeries to say good-bye to. Getting a birth control prescription just wasn’t at the top of my priority list. So I, well, I sort of pretended she never said it. I knew it was foolish and immature, and the knowledge of those little cysts had been lurking in the back of my mind ever since. But my Manhattan doctor had also said the cysts were benign, quite treatable, and nothing to get alarmed about, so I didn’t. Get alarmed. Until now.

“So, what does that mean exactly?” I asked, in a calm voice that I hoped didn’t belie my internal profanity. “The ‘nonexistent estrogen levels’?”

“Well, it could mean a few things,” Dr. Tippy responded in her speed-whisper. As she started ticking these things off, the words she used, like “ovulation,” “fertility,” and “menopause,” echoed nastily in my head. I felt rattled and disoriented. I didn’t understand what was happening. And then it just got worse. “Do you have a partner?” she asked. “Are children something you’re considering?” The benign look on Dr. Tippy’s face gave absolutely no indication of how loaded her questions were. The room was unbearably quiet as she waited. Inconsolable babies wailed in the waiting room down the hall.

“No.” Was I considering children? “I mean, yes.” Exactly how did I feel about having kids? “No, yes. I don’t have a partner right now, but I probably do want kids. I think. Some day.”

“Well listen, you have time. You’re thirty-six—oh wait, thirty-seven—I see you recently had a birthday,” her reference a little twist to the dagger she had dug into my gut five minutes ago. “Well, no matter. But this is obviously something that needs to be addressed sooner rather than later, especially if you do think kids are something you want in your future.”

Dr. Tippy briskly shuffled her papers again, this time with a determined spirit. “I can only do so much for you so I’m going to give you the name of an endocrinologist, which is a hormone specialist. She’ll be able to explain things a bit further and take you through your options.” She tore the referral from her prescription pad and gave me that doctor smile that’s supposed to be calming and reassuring but just made me want to throw up.

Needless to say, I was a wreck in the ensuing days. The littlest things—a conversational impasse at work, a rude Frenchie cutting me off in the street, my mom’s photo on the fridge—were all it took to turn me into a geyser of salty tears. I had to wait two weeks before I could get in to see the endocrinologist, which left me, once again, with too much time inside my head. Alone with my thoughts. Doubting myself.

I kept hearing Dr. Tippy asking: Are children something you’re considering? It was a good question—one that I had cleverly avoided for years. I had always thought that I first needed to meet someone who knocked my socks off. Someone I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Then, maybe then, I’d feel strongly enough about having kids. To me, starting a family was the result of loving someone so incredibly much that you wanted to make a baby with him. While I had been in love with Max and had lovely memories of Eric, I had been too young or our situations just weren’t right for that sort of commitment.

Had I forever altered my life, being so heedless about my biological clock? Would those young and fertile, willfully ignorant, years come back to haunt me? While I still didn’t necessarily know if I wanted babies, I certainly didn’t want anyone telling me they weren’t an option.

As I muddled through my angst, my instinct was to call one of my girlfriends back home, but I didn’t feel right doing that. I didn’t want anyone to feel guilty for their deserved good fortune. AJ’s wedding was creeping up. She was getting married in a matter of weeks, and I knew she was excited to start trying to get pregnant. Everyone else already had kids, having largely gone the traditional route of marrying in their late twenties and starting families by their early thirties. I’d experienced a lot of the new motherhood drama with them: the lack of sleep, sex, and vacations. The soiled diapers, blouses, and couches. And the greater existential dilemmas like choosing between being a stay-at-home mom and a working mom, and the pressure to always be a supermom. Listening to my friends struggle throughout the years, I had secretly considered myself fortunate that I didn’t have to make those decisions. I knew it wasn’t easy. And selfishly, I was psyched that I never had to sacrifice designer sofas, lazy Sunday mornings, or spontaneous sex.

I knew my girls wouldn’t see it this way, but I felt if I called them now in a puddle of fertility woes, they’d feel guilty. I had always felt fulfilled and proud of my solo lifestyle—how it gave me freedom and made every day more fun, adventurous, and unexpected. This Parisian boondoggle was the perfect case in point. I could only do it because I was unattached and had no obligations except a monthly mortgage payment and Milo’s cat food bills. And when I told everyone I was off to Paris to work on Louis Vuitton’s advertising and learn the difference between choux pastry and puff pastry, they showered me with excitement and envy. “Take me with you!” they joked.

But now I was thirty-six years old—whoops, thirty-seven—and maybe the joke was on me. My knee-jerk “It would be nice if it happened” response had to be more carefully considered. I had been recklessly squelching the baby question, burying it deep inside of me as a maybe, maybe not scenario for years. Now it was maybe, maybe not too late. It was a reminder that I had stubbornly chosen to blaze a path of independence. The one on which I was now seemingly lost.

“Oh, bunny, I’m so sorry. I know exactly what you’re going through.” As further evidence that Melissa and I were separated at birth, she really did know—five years earlier she had gone through a similar scare, hers leading to a final prognosis that she couldn’t have kids. Now she was offering me the comfort and reassurance that I really needed at that moment.

“It’s like my body is betraying me. I’m only thirty-six—damn, I keep doing that. I keep thinking I’m thirty-six. But I’m thirty-seven—”

“Still, Aim, thirty-seven is young. You have time.”

“‘Young’ is pushing it. Thirty-seven is hardly ‘young.’ Especially when it comes to being a woman, much less getting pregnant.” We looked at each other knowingly, the indignity of aging, and the injustice of getting older as a woman versus as a man, noted for a conversation another time. “But seriously, is this a sign of things to come? Am I just going to start decaying and falling apart? I mean, my ovaries just decided they were done with producing eggs?! And these cysts that I have? You know, sometimes you grow beards as a result!”

Melissa burst out laughing. “Beards?! What are you talking about?”

“It’s true, it’s one of the symptoms in severe cases!”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing. This is serious. But I think the last thing you should be worrying about is a beard. There’s nothing on your chin except adorable peach fuzz.” She reached out and cupped my face. I loved how affectionate she was. We were sitting in her sun-filled living room that overlooked Canal Saint-Martin, sans makeup, sans pretense. As our friendship had developed over the months, an easy intimacy enveloped us that made hanging out at home as comfortable as if I were with one of my girls back home. We didn’t need the distraction of a bustling bobo scene or the excuse of a new bar opening to get together. Listening to the bongos from the street urchins echoing across the waterway, seeing the chestnut trees swaying in the breeze outside her window, I was so grateful to have someone I could count on, heart and soul, in Paris.

“I don’t think you’re going to grow a beard, bunny. But I do think you’re going to have kids. I just have a feeling that you’re going to meet someone and be a mother. I really, really see that for you. I know it’s not my lot in life, and I am fine with that, but I do think it’ll happen for you.”

“Really?” I asked imploringly, as if she were looking into a crystal ball and really could tell what my future held. I hadn’t been able to figure it out all those years. Maybe Mel could.

“I know you have a referral—and, P.S., we don’t even know what your situation is yet, this could just be a blip—but I can give you the name of one of the best fertility experts in the city, just so you have it.”

I had so many questions and doubts, so much uncertainty and frustration about what was going on with my body. Infertility? Babies? My future? Mon dieu. But having a friend to lean on made me feel invincible, if only fleetingly. The way a good AJ pep talk could. My appointment with the endocrinologist was tomorrow, and for the first time in two long weeks of waiting, I felt a sliver of optimism. I had Mel on my side. I could do this.

I should have known better. By that time, I had been living in Paris for nearly nine months. I was intimately familiar with their all-business demeanor. Their eye-rolling and shoulder shrugging; their meh attitudes. So what did I expect, that this specialist I was sent to see would dispense hugs and compassion along with her prognosis?

There I was the next day, shivering in yet another gown, on yet another examination table, in a different part of town. Once again, I was subjected to a naked weigh-in and recital of my family’s health history. My fingernails were blue, and my body was covered in goose bumps by the time we finally got to my current issues and symptoms. Despite my chills, my palms were collecting pools of sweat in my lap. I swallowed a lump of anxiety in my throat, but I managed to keep the tears in check. As I waited for the Specialist’s expert opinion, I could get no read from her. I was dying. I felt like my whole biological future was in the hands of this heavy-set, beautifully coiffed, blank-faced endocrinologist.

“You know what you need to do?” she finally asked, her words coming like maddening drops in a bucket as opposed to Dr. Tippy’s rat-a-tat machine gunfire. I shook my head and swallowed again. “Profiter d’être à Paris.” She delivered this simple recommendation with complete and utter confidence.

“Eh, excusez-moi?”

“Profiter d’être à Paris,” she looked at me and then repeated it yet again with more emphasis. “Profiter d’être à Paris!” Okay, where was the hidden camera? This was a joke, right? From what I understood, I was being treated for ovarian cysts and had iffy fertility prospects, and she was telling me to simply benefit from being in Paris? I wanted a hardcore plan of action. I wanted a course of treatment. I wanted drugs! After all, what could going to the theater and opera do for my ovaries?

If I were in New York, I knew I would be getting all kinds of prescriptions and advice. But the Specialist—in typical French fashion—shrugged the whole thing off. So, my internal stressing about living in a new country and culture has caused my system to go a little nutty? C’est normal. So my ovaries were temporarily withholding my eggs? Pas grave. So I was thirty-seven? Peu import. I just needed to relax.

The oral contraceptives Dr. Tippy had prescribed—and this time I was taking them—were meant to trick my system into “working” again and eventually make those cysts go away. I was still young and lively. Now, if I could just enjoy being there—see some Balanchine, eat some foie gras, do what so many people around the world would kill to do in my position—well, that would make me all better! I could have a healthy body and pump out some healthy babies. Pourquoi pas? Why not?

My feet limply dangled over the examination table as I waited for her real advice—a prescription, the name of another specialist, even some Eastern herbs or meditation techniques, anything tangible that I could walk away with to make me feel in control of the situation. But I was waiting for nothing. The Specialist rose from her desk, pushed a curl behind her ear, and wished me bonne journée.

As I pulled on my jeans—damn, definitely tighter than they used to be—exhaustion from these past couple weeks of emotional roller-coasting set in. A storm of feelings hit me at once: irritation, disbelief, fear, sadness, regret. And yet I found myself giggling. This long, drawn-out process capped off by the indifference of the Specialist was utterly absurd. And par for the course in Paris. Vive la France!

I found myself wandering aimlessly through the twelfth arrondissement after my appointment, muttering to myself. That’s it! Just enjoy being in Paris! Easy-breezy! No need to worry about your biological clock, mademoiselle—you might as well be twenty-seven!

But as I passed by the green awning of Blé Sucré, Fabrice Le Bourdat’s pâtisserie on Square Trousseau, something clicked. If Marcel Proust, the French literary genius, had famously had an awakening biting into a plump little teacake known as the madeleine, maybe I could have a similarly transporting experience? If not an involuntary memory, perhaps an involuntary attitude adjustment? Fabrice’s citrus-glazed madeleines were reputedly the best in the city. Could one of his special sponge cakes be the key to my moving forward? I knew I couldn’t turn back the hands of time, but might something be triggered, releasing my pent-up hormones, flooding me with fertility, setting my body back in equilibrium? Could a madeleine make me better? If nothing else, I knew it would at least taste good. I went inside.

Considering Fabrice had been pâtissier at the five-star Bristol Hotel, which is known for its divine desserts, and, prior to that, the chic Plaza Athénée and Hotel de Martinez in Cannes, he has an extraordinarily calm and blasé perspective on baking (not unlike the Specialist’s attitude had been about my ovaries). After the regal résumé building, he and his wife opened a modest bakery in 2006—the kind of neighborhood spot that everyone wants in their quartier. Every morning, and in waves throughout the day, lines stretch out the door, regulars waiting for his crunchy baguettes, flaky viennoiserie, and massive selection of petits gâteaux. Some, like the dome-shaped Le Vollon, are so glossy, the decadent dark chocolate looks molten. Others, like the L’Aligre, are as fluffy as clouds, topped with spears of candied pineapple. Fabrice’s wife, Celine, cheerfully serves the customers, and then many mingle at the pastel-colored, iron café tables in front of the bakery. Sometimes Fabrice will join them for an espresso. Indeed, nothing makes the pâtissier happier than pleasing his customers—with his baking and his friendship. In return, many Parisians insist his baguettes and pain au chocolat are the best in the city. But nary a soul will dispute that his madeleines take top honors.

These shell-shaped teacakes from the town of Commercy in northeastern France date back to the eighteenth century. Made with génoise batter, which relies heavily on eggs, the edges bake to a dark golden color while the rest of the cake remains a sunny yellow. They can be put away in a quick five or six bites, making it nearly impossible to not reach for a second, and a third. They’re sort of similar to American muffins—if you disregard the current super-sized, candy-studded bastardized muffins that have become so popular in recent years. Although there’s at least one place in New York that has held onto the simple, wholesome concept of a muffin: Thé Adoré in Greenwich Village.

Despite the French name, it’s a Japanese gentleman by the name of Yukihito Yahagi who opened the two-story tearoom twenty years ago. A small crew of cute and fashionable Japanese women work there, churning out simple sandwiches, soups, and quiches. And they make fresh baked goods in the morning. True to a French salon de thé, they bake traditional pastries like almond croissants, brioche, and even madeleines. But they don’t compare to the ones in Paris. While Fabrice’s madeleines are moist, light, buttery, and delicious, Thé Adoré’s are a titch on the dry, crumbly side—evidence that imitation may be the greatest form of flattery, but it’s tough to beat a French pâtissier at his own game. And with Fabrice’s thin layer of orange glaçage, made with freshly squeezed juice, he definitely has the winning touch.

Thé Adoré’s muffins, however, are outstanding. Simple. Unpretentious. Lovely and delicious. Instead of softball-sized creations bursting with absurd mix-ins, there are only three varieties—raspberry, banana, and classic blueberry. They’re baked in humble parchment paper, and are the same size that our moms ate in the ’50s. They have a real do-it-yourself, made-at-home sensibility that I love.

It became a favorite escape of mine in New York: having morning coffee and a blueberry muffin—so classically American—but in a shabby-chic, French-Japanese tearoom. With dark wood tables and mismatched chairs scattered across the plank floors, the upstairs dining room felt as cozy as a cabin in the Catskills. Until you gazed out the giant picture window over 13th Street and saw all the NYU students rushing about with their yoga mats and shih tzus, and realized you were in the epicenter of New York. Still, I always found Thé Adoré romantic and peaceful. It’s one of the few places in the city where you can sit with your thoughts and disappear for a while.

And there I was, doing the same thing thousands of miles away. I had gotten a bag of four madeleines—the way they’re sold at Blé Sucré—and retreated to Square Trousseau. The limestone apartment buildings stood guard over the neighborhood park, sunlight filtering through the bare chestnut trees. A big gazebo was smack in the middle of the park. Vacant ping-pong and foosball tables—babyfoot to the Frenchies—were lined up like soldiers on one side. The other side was consumed by a giant children’s playground. As I looked around, I saw I wasn’t the only one in the park indulging in a sweet.

Seeing as it was four o’clock in the afternoon, it was le goûter—the glorious hour when snacking was sanctioned. All the little rug rats were nibbling golden madeleines like mine, or pain au chocolat. A few humbly ate biscuits from the supermarket. But there were no fruit leathers or crackers powdered with orange “cheese.” French kids learn early the importance of good food. The climbing walls and slides on the playground echoed with cute voices, and, every once in a while, was punctuated by not-so-cute screams and cries. A public park in Paris was hardly the place to come for a respite from thinking about kids.

Perhaps it was coincidence, or maybe madeleines—good madeleines—really do have transformative powers. All I can say is Fabrice’s moist, citrusy teacakes were at least in part responsible for lifting me out of my funk. As I sat on a park bench, savoring the wee spongy snacks, my mojo started returning. Even if I didn’t like the Specialist’s advice, I couldn’t complain. Someone was telling me to enjoy Paris. To take advantage of living in such a phenomenal place—which was the reason I had come to begin with. It’s true, I realized, I was lucky. Lucky to be living in Paris, on my own path in life. I simply couldn’t cry over yesteryears and what might have been.

I had spent thirty-seven years following my heart and my gut. There was no point in doubting myself now. When I had been younger and in relationships, it hadn’t felt right to get married and have kids. And as shaky as I had been feeling lately, I knew I didn’t regret those decisions. Maybe I’d still be so lucky to meet someone who knocked my socks off and have kids like Melissa predicted. Maybe I wouldn’t. But, as the crumbs from my final madeleine disintegrated on my tongue, I knew that everything would work out the way it was supposed to. Bite by spongy-sweet bite, my emotions were being reset.

So I was willing to accept the Specialist’s optimistic prognosis. I decided 2010 was indeed going to be the year I profited by being in Paris. I had a belly full of pastries. The winter sun was warm and gentle. And it was a new day in Paris. It may have started out pretty crummy, but things were starting to get that golden glow again.

More Sweet Spots on the Map

The current love affair between New York and Paris means you can get plenty of plump madeleines in New York, and multiflavored muffins in Paris. It may not be on the same scale as the cupcake-macaron exchange, but the Franglais sweet swap is becoming increasingly popular for these small, unsung douceurs as well.

In New York, you can get a nice, moist madeleine at Duane Park Pâtisserie in Tribeca, Ceci-Cela in Nolita, or at the ever-expanding Financier Pâtisserie chain. For muffins in Paris that will transport you to America, stop by Bob’s Juice Bar in Canal Saint-Martin, Columbus Café in the Marais, or Lili’s Brownies Café in Saint-Germain.