Chapter 16

Paris, France

May 2010

On my first day in Paris I ignored the jet lag and I walked all the way from the sixteenth arrondissement, just northwest of Avenue Foch, past the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs-Élysées, through Place de la Concorde, past the Louvre Museum and the Tuileries Garden, across Île de la Cité and Île Saint-Louis and over to the Left Bank. There, sitting on the terrace of a café eating a late lunch, overlooking the Seine and Bateaux Mouches boats that glided by, gawking at the gargoyle spires of Notre Dame in the near distance, I could not believe that I had done it. I had quit my very sensible job writing daytime news and had left my New York City apartment in the hands of a subletter and had relocated, alone, to Paris.

And not just Paris, but Paris in the full and rapturous throes of springtime. The chestnut and plane trees hung heavy with new leaves along the riverside quays; adorable little children squealed with delight as they skipped across cobblestones on their way home from school. From where I was sitting, I could hear an accordion. I could hear fragments of French as people passed by. I could hear the peals of Notre Dame’s bells. On my walk home, I could stop at any number of bakeries and get myself an oven-fresh pain au chocolat, the gooey inside still warm and liquid. My soul was dancing for joy.

Dave had fully supported my decision. He had seen better than anyone how deeply I had longed to make a career change. He was finishing up an intense period of medical school and was busy himself. I would be back in New York City in the fall.

I saw my time in Paris, my favorite city in the world, as a chance to replenish my soul. After feeling stressed, overstimulated, and unfulfilled during the years working a job that was not the right fit, Paris was a chance to make a meaningful shift. It was time to be by myself and contemplate what I wanted for these next steps in my life and in my career and in my relationship with Dave. It was, as I saw it, a last opportunity to go off on my own and have adventures and live according to my whims in a rich and beautiful and transient moment.

I do not mind traveling alone. In fact, I love traveling alone. I bought a Europass, and I took the train all over Europe that spring. I visited family friends in glorious Florence and then took the bus through Tuscany and visited Siena. I went to Geneva to stay with my aunt Tessa, whose Parisian apartment I was occupying, and we rode a chairlift across stunning Alpine vistas and climbed old church bell towers. I met my friend Charlotte in Bruges, Belgium, and we traveled together to her family’s hometown on the coast of the North Sea in Ostend, Belgium, where we ate frites and drank Belgian beer and meandered through the markets and squares. I traveled throughout France, visiting the medieval walled city of Saint-Malo and the Breton coast (where my mother’s family originally came from) and capping off a wonderful séjour with my cousin’s beautiful wedding at her family home in Plouër-sur-Rance.

I remember, one afternoon in Florence, I was walking around the city, several generous scoops of gelato balancing atop a cone in my hand. I was devouring the ice cream; I was devouring the views of that magical city. I was savoring my freedom and the sounds of the church bells and the snippets of Italian and the wonder of it all. I passed shops and kiosks and wound my way through narrow cobblestoned streets, enjoying myself without a map or an agenda. As I ambled across the magnificent Piazza del Duomo, one of the store owners raised his arms, proclaiming: “Bella signorina, you look happy!”

I smiled and answered: “I am.”