Now, I’ve…had…the time of my life…and I owe it all to yooooo-uuuuu…”

Ah, America. It was good to be back. JFK was as bustling as it always was. The Dirty Dancing soundtrack blaring from the speakers reminded me of the summer afternoons in high school I used to spend cruising around my Connecticut beach town in my little silver Jetta. Kim Kardashian and Lady Gaga blanketing every magazine cover reminded me how woefully out of touch I was with le smut du jour. Babies were screaming from their thousand-dollar strollers, cell phones were bleating like an electronic symphony, everyone—even barely walking three-year-olds—was tugging those little wheelie suitcases behind them, creating a candy-colored, movable minefield as I made my way from the Air France terminal to U.S. customs.

This was the same sensory overload that had appalled me when I made my first trip back home only a few months earlier. But now, surrounded by people sporting velour tracksuits, fake tans, and tattoos—such a long, long way from the slim jeans, ballet flats, and perfectly painted lips back in Paris—it was like a big, warm, chubby hug from America. This time, I wasn’t complaining.

Maybe it was just the new outlook I had adopted since the Specialist: be happy and grateful for what you have, and watch how the world opens up to you. As proof that the universe was indeed trying to be more cooperative and supportive, the Louis Vuitton photo shoot I had to do for work had been scheduled in New York the week before AJ was getting married. I got to fly home for business and stay for my best friend’s wedding. Not too shabby. Even better, we were booked at 60 Thompson, the slick boutique hotel in western Soho. Every morning I power-walked along the Hudson River Park, the narrow riverside stretch that extends from 59th Street to Battery Park and offers one of my favorite vantages of the city. In the evenings, we’d unwind in the lobby with cocktails, watching the parade of foreign guests toting their shopping bags filled with designer loot. Best of all, room service left a couple itty-bitty Fat Witch brownies on the nightstand every afternoon. I also wasn’t above plundering the housekeeping carts, eschewing the Kiehl’s bath products in favor of amassing a personal stockpile of fudgy two-bite treats. And “work” those few glorious days consisted of prepping for and then shooting Annie Leibovitz and Mikhail Baryshnikov—two artistic legends—for our latest campaign. A girl can get used to this, was the first thought that danced through my mind every morning when I got my sunny wake-up call from the front desk and flicked on NY1 to see what Pat Kiernan was reading in the papers.

But even though the workweek was decadent and exciting, it was also draining. When my team took off for the airport at the end of the jam-packed week, I heaved a happy sigh of relief and migrated uptown. I was home! In New York! My best friend was getting married, and we were going to have the time of our lives!

“A, you look stunning!” Of course every bride looks beautiful, but AJ was truly radiant. And she wasn’t even in her gown or makeup yet. It was the night before the wedding, and instead of having a traditional rehearsal dinner, AJ and Mitchell were hosting a casual open house in a Brooklyn Heights brownstone. It was the perfect representation of them as a couple: unfussy, fun, and all about home, family, and friends.

“Merci, mon amie,” she replied, giving me an unguarded smile that made her blue eyes light up and her nose crinkle. It was like she couldn’t contain her joy; this was the happiest I had ever seen her—even happier than when her braces came off in tenth grade. It was so crazy to think that when I had left New York not even a year ago, she and Mitchell had only just met. Now they were mere hours away from exchanging wedding vows. You never know what—or whom—life is going to bring you.

As the house filled up with guests, the energy progressed from relaxed to celebratory. It was a special occasion for me too—a chance to see so many people from years past and reminisce with my best friends from high school. Ben was about to sign a new band, Julie was convinced her daughter was going to be even naughtier at sixteen than she was now at four, and Elisa’s husband was producing a new show on MTV. I caught up with AJ’s aunts and uncles, most of whom I hadn’t seen since I went to Iowa with AJ as a thirteen-year-old, severely obsessed with how high I could tease my bangs and just when I would have enough to fill out a training bra. Little cousins and children of friends, amped up on M&Ms, excitedly ran around the spacious parlor rooms; Van Morrison, Alicia Keys, and Coldplay shuffled on iTunes; and the buffet table was slowly being depleted of its cold cuts, crudités, and cupcakes.

At the end of the night, instead of rallying for a nightcap with the rest of the crew like we normally would have, AJ and I taxied back to Manhattan. She wisely wanted to get a good night’s sleep. I was her Best Girl, there to ensure her wedding weekend worked out exactly as she wanted. Besides, my feet were aching from standing all night in the new Charles Kammer lace-up heels I had bought in Paris for the wedding.

“How are you doing, Aim?” she asked once we were snuggled between the starchy sheets and down blankets on opposite sides of the king-sized bed of her bridal suite. AJ’s compassion and sincerity had always—for lack of a less hokey term—warmed my heart. After these past few months of so little empathy or connection in my life, they were especially welcome. I was relieved to let my guard down.

“I’m good,” I told her. “It’s definitely been a rough couple of months, but I’m hanging in there.” I listened to the taxi horns and police sirens echoing in the cavernous avenue twenty stories below, blessedly muted through the double-pane windows. A door slammed somewhere down the hall, another reveler’s night coming to a close.

“I never even knew I could feel as depressed as I did last month in Paris,” I continued. “I hit a new low. But, who knows? Maybe the ovarian cysts were the best thing to happen to me.” AJ was looking at me quizzically, waiting for me. “It’s been unsettling and…crappy,” I went on. “And I really don’t like thinking that there’s a possibility I can’t have kids. But at the same time, I also sort of feel like I’ve been given a second chance. I’ve had to really think about things—what my priorities are and what I want to achieve in my life—instead of just cruising along, you know? It’s like a not-quite-midlife opportunity to decide what I want to do and where I want to go from here.”

“It’s so true, Amy. I mean, look at you,” she paused for dramatic effect. “You’re living abroad in the most beautiful city on earth. You work on Louis Vuitton’s advertising. You’re traveling every month. You’re surrounded by all this great fashion, and fabulous people—”

“And don’t forget the mind-blowing sweets!”

“Seriously. It’s pretty amazing.”

“I know, it is.” I rolled on my back and gazed up at the ceiling, letting this moment of affirmation settle over me. I thought of the trips I’d taken in recent months—to London to spend time with my brother and his family, and to Nantes and Lille, two cities on opposite sides of the country that both had incredible art, architecture, and, bien sûr, sweets. I thought about how fulfilling my new friendships with Melissa, Michael, and Jo were, and also how much more I now valued the connection with my friends and family back home. I was also excited about the new community of bloggers I was becoming part of and even the fondness I had for my colleagues. I’d experienced the lowest lows and the highest highs of my life, those past months in Paris.

Thank God I had decided to slog through my loneliness and fear and not run home with my tail between my legs when things started getting hard. I had been ready to quit everything and go back to New York’s comfort and familiarity. But by doing so, I would have walked away from the best career run I’d had in my life. I never would have seen so much of the French countryside. I wouldn’t now eat duck, rabbit, herring and sardines, and about eighteen varieties of cheese and wine would be woefully unknown. Only weeks ago, I was convinced I belonged in New York. Now I felt I belonged in Paris.

While there were still questions—how long did I want to stay, where should I push my career, would I actually fall in love and have kids—I also knew that finding the answers required effort and patience. But finding those answers was why I was in Paris. “I mean, it sucks that I haven’t met anyone and I still struggle with the language and meeting people,” I continued my mini-therapy session with AJ, who was propped up on her elbow. I turned and mirrored her. “But everyone has their issues wherever they are. And I’m just trying to focus on the positive and believe that what’s meant to be, will be.” I paused. “And it will, I really believe that. Do I sound crazy new-agey?”

“Not at all. I think you have the right attitude. We never know what tomorrow will bring, so just enjoy your time in Paris, Aim. You’re lucky to have the freedom to be doing what you’re doing and enjoying so many cool things. You should be proud of yourself,” she cheered me on. “It’s not easy moving to a foreign city, where you know no one.”

“Thanks, A,” I said. “But enough about moi. This is it! You’re getting married tomorrow. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

“I know, married. It doesn’t seem real.” AJ got sucked into a mini-reverie, her eyes going glassy. Then she looked at me. “We’ve had so much fun.”

“You and Mitchell?”

“No! You and me! Remember all the nights at Passerby?” she asked, referring to a tiny Chelsea bar with a flashing Saturday Night Fever dance floor. Inevitably, it was where we ended up during our single years, boogying until the wee morning hours.

“Yeah, and kir royales at Pastis…”

“And hanging out with Warren and Eddy at Bond Street…”

“Oh yeah, I had forgotten about them!” I confessed. After all, our nights had tended to be anchored far away from Noho in the circus-like Meatpacking District and dark, meandering streets of the West Village. “And remember the parties we’d throw at Craig’s apartment? Those were so fun.” We might as well have been talking about our sweet sixteens or senior prom with the amount of nostalgia we were dredging up.

AJ started laughing. “Remember how you did your demo of side crow in your purple party dress? Those pictures are awesome.”

“Yeah, and then of course Craig has to upstage me by doing full crow into a flying headstand.” We were both cracking up at the image of me and our good friend doing yoga moves at various cocktail parties throughout the years. Don’t ask me why we did it, but we did. It happened once and then became a regular party trick. “And remember Giles? Remember that night we met him and Gino and went back to their apartment and were up all night, dancing to the Bee Gees?”

“My God. When was the last time you saw the sun come up?”

“Uh, that night,” I shuddered. “I think it took me about a week to recover.”

This was it: our last single girls’ night together and instead of tearing up the town, we were giggling like schoolgirls, remembering all the previous nights in the city that we had made lifelong memories—and, on occasion, fools of ourselves. But at least we had gotten the most out of our time together in New York. Although I knew AJ and I would always be this close, I also knew we were saying good-bye: to our old lives, to a time when we were young and wild and free in New York City. With me in Paris and AJ going to the altar, we were officially entering a new phase, a time when banana cupcakes and late-night cocktails would be more occasional than de rigueur. Soon even a modest pleasure like sitting at Billy’s would be a rare event.

“We’ve been so lucky,” I said as our laughter died down.

“So lucky, I know.” AJ and I looked at each other in a moment of shared history. I could see her as a gangly, eager-to-please seventh grader; a nervous college freshman with her yellow Chevrolet packed full of boxes; a star shimmier on the dance floor of Passerby. No matter what, we would always be soul sisters.

“Let’s get some sleep,” I suggested, reaching for the bedside light. “Tomorrow’s kind of a big day, you know.”

“You’re right,” AJ smiled. “Night, Aim.”

“Good night. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Between getting my hair and makeup done and finding a strapless bra, to-the-knee slip, and sheer black stockings—things I had desperately needed for the wedding but were much less intimidating and stressful to shop for in New York than Paris—and also attempting to make it to Billy’s to get AJ a wedding-day banana cupcake, I had to finish writing my toast. Despite a brief run on the junior high debate team, public speaking has never been my forte. In fact, I hate it. And even though this toast was for my best friend, the thought of standing beneath the soaring ceilings of the Yale Club’s main banquet hall, where the eyes of 120 live guests plus the framed portraits of five Yale-educated U.S. presidents would be watching me try to be equal parts charming, funny, sincere, and eloquent, made me feel as nauseous as if I had “accidentally” devoured all 1,080 calories inside a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream.

But writing the toast was cathartic too. Having started it thirty-six hundred miles away gave me some literal distance to reflect on a near lifetime of friendship with AJ: the search for love in both of our lives, the romantic ideals and fantasies we had formed—and that had formed us along the way. Our notions of who the perfect partner was had changed over the years, from cool New England prepsters in our teens, to worldly and artistic charmers in our twenties, to just feeling lucky if we could meet someone sane and gainfully employed without children, a drinking problem, or latent misogynistic tendencies by the time we were in our midthirties.

While I had been one of those girls who had her bridesmaids’ and babies’ names picked out at the age of eighteen, at thirty-seven my life clearly looked nothing like the one my younger self had envisioned. But sometimes you want things just because you think you’re supposed to. And sometimes it’s the things you never even knew you wanted that give your life the most meaning. At the very moment that AJ was diving into the dream life we had fantasized about growing up together, my heart had led me further afield. My heart had taken me to Paris.

The Anglo-Franco mélange of two cultures that I was experiencing in my personal life could also be seen in the rising popularity of certain sweets around Paris. In fact, the English baker Rose Carrarini’s individual carrot cakes—the shape and size of Campbell’s soup cans, topped with a measured layer of cream cheese frosting—had become icons of la cuisine anglaise ever since she and her French husband, Jean-Charles, opened Rose Bakery in 2002 on the then little-trafficked rue des Martyrs in the ninth arrondissement.

Prior to that, the couple had already cooked up a successful food empire in London called Villandry. After growing and selling that business, they decided to venture south for a new chapter: a smaller bakery where they could be more hands-on.

It’s sort of ironic that carrot cake came to symbolize their nouveau eatery as Rose didn’t have formal pastry training, nor does she have a sweet tooth. But what she and Jean-Charles did have was a passion for healthy, organic ingredients, a keen sense for the next new thing, and some strong connections. Rose’s sister-in-law is Rei Kawabuko, the designer behind Comme des Garçons, and they created half the menu for Colette, the hypercool concept store on rue Saint-Honoré that lured international hipsters with its selection of bespoke baskets, electronic music, and art-house books. Even though the couple was intentionally vague about where and when they would be opening their bakery, word got out and trendy Parisians were queuing before it even opened.

Just as the couple’s intention was always to dissolve the distinction between home and restaurant cooking by offering simple, wholesome food, they also blurred the boundaries of the kitchen and dining room of their rue des Martyrs canteen. The dishes—vibrantly colored market salads, square-shaped quiches with organic veggies spearing the eggy surfaces, and rows of marble cake, citron polenta cake, pistachio cake, plus the cylindrical carrot cakes—were arranged on a short counter immediately to the right of the entrance. This gave customers—who stood hovering over the display as they inevitably had to wait for a table—a chance to peer at what might soon be in their bellies.

Rose’s dalliances in sweets began back in London when she couldn’t find pastries and desserts that she wanted to eat and decided she’d have to do it herself. As soon as she took on the challenge of making pastry dough at Villandry, she realized there are many factors that go into successful baking besides just following a recipe. How you handle the dough and when you take it out of the oven can affect the taste as much as the ingredients that you put into the mixing bowl. She’d touch her pastries until they felt the right consistency and taste them until they were perfect to her palate.

It wasn’t just technique where Rose proved to be a natural. She was, and is, a genius recipe developer. She taught herself through practice, by listening and responding to customers’ desires, by reading the likes of Elizabeth David and Richard Olney, and by drawing inspiration from great chefs such as Alice Waters. She started with classic recipes and then twisted them to see how she could transform each dessert into something different—something better. Letting her instincts lead the way, she kept playing with recipes, adjusting measurements and altering ingredients, which, more often than not, meant reducing the amount of sugar. For example, she cut the sugar in her now-famous carrot cake by half of what the original recipe called for. As a result, Rose’s desserts are intentionally healthier than most. This philosophy is “the culmination of years of our taking out what is not necessary” is how she puts it in her delicious cookbook Breakfast, Lunch, Tea.

For the better part of a year, I had watched Anglo eateries popping up all over Paris. Just like on my visits to New York when I discovered new French bakeries, it brought me an uneasy mixture of excitement, pride, and serious annoyance. It was comforting to see familiar desserts, but it was jarring and bizarre too. After all, who wants to eat carrot cake when there are black currant macarons, raspberry-rose millefeuilles, and triple chocolate terrines studded with caramelized Piedmont hazelnuts? Pas moi. I was flummoxed as to how Parisians could be seduced by a totally unsexy dessert. But there it was: this humble cake of shredded root vegetables had made quite an impression on the Frenchies.

“I think it goes to show you, some of the best things in life are worth waiting for.” I was nearly done delivering my toast. My voice had stopped quivering halfway through, I was standing taller, with more confidence, and I think George W. even winked at me in empathy from his portrait on the banquet room’s wall. “So everyone, please raise your glasses—here’s to AJ and Mitchell!” After two minutes of sucking in my gut before all the guests, I exhaled. The MC plucked the microphone from my sweaty palm and I fled to the safety of my table for eight, where a ninth chair had been crammed in so I could sit with my four best coupled friends. With the toast behind me, it was time to party.

It was one of those weddings that starts with everyone looking coiffed and civilized but quickly spirals into a roiling sweat-fest. Mitchell had spent weeks putting together a playlist that married his passion for indie ’80s music with AJ’s devotion to disco. As evidenced by the packed dance floor, it appealed to AJ’s still-spry grandma as much as all us “kids” from high school days. With each hour, more mascara was smeared, more updos came tumbling down, and more neckties were tossed on the now-empty dinner tables. There were blistered feet, torn pantyhose, and more than one air guitar battle. It was brilliant.

“Yeah, Paris!” I excitedly shouted to Tom, one of AJ’s friends from her stint in Washington, D.C., whom I had bumped into while getting another glass of prosecco at the bar.

“Wow, that’s pretty awesome.”

“Yeah, I love it. It’s amazing.”

“I bet the food’s incredible,” Aunt Val said when we were both catching our breath after pogo-ing to Kris Kross.

“Oh-my-God-in-credible,” I gushed. “I mean, it’s like, how can an apple taste so delicious? Everything—the baguettes, the butter, the wine, the pastries—is just so flavorful, it’s insane.”

“How are the men?” two of AJ’s college girlfriends wanted to know. We were in the restroom, trying to salvage our matte complexions but were resigning to the fact that a fresh application of lipstick was about as good as it was going to get. “Bahh…” I dramatically shrugged my shoulders and immediately recognized that—sacré bleu!—with that simultaneous utterance and shrug, I was mimicking a French mannerism that drove me crazy back in Paris! I shook my head at the question and myself. “Let’s just say that I haven’t exactly figured the men out.”

Without a date that night, I was floating—free, happy, proud, and excited. I could flit about and talk to everyone. For the first time in a very long time—definitely the first time in Manhattan, city of searching for Mr. Right—I didn’t care about being single. So I didn’t have a fabulous plus-one at my side. I had a fabulous life back in Paris. I was enjoying how everyone responded to those two simple syllables when they fell from my lips: Pair-iss. They sighed, swooned, and became starry-eyed. Or maybe that was just how it made me feel.

If a good wedding can be judged by how much your feet throb the next day, then AJ’s wedding was a roaring success. As I stretched back in my seat on the flight back to Paris, achy, blistered feet released from the captivity of my leather boots, I was feeling downright giddy. It was everything and nothing: the dancing, the goofiness, the howling-in-laughter jokes, and the tender moments. The previous few days with my best friends in New York had given me the surge of love and reassurance I needed as I went back to Paris to embrace six more months of the unknown.

More Sweet Spots on the Map

Banana cake with cream cheese frosting is offered at many a New York bakery, from Baked to Sugar Sweet Sunshine to Amy’s Bread. But, in honor of AJ, Billy’s gets my seal of approval. Since opening in Chelsea, they’ve gone on to open additional outposts in Tribeca and Nolita.

By the end of my stint in Paris, there was a crazy wave of Anglo-American eateries that offered cheesecake, pound cake, cupcakes, and carrot cake, including Merce and the Muse in the Marais, and Cosi and Lili’s Brownies Café, both in Saint-Germain. But Rose Bakery is definitely the place for carrot cake. Just like Billy’s, Rose and Jean-Charles have slowly expanded with outposts in the Marais and the Bastille. Could New York be next?