One day last September, sitting alone in my office on a rainy day, I made a kind of rash decision. Perusing my Twitter feed, as one does, I came across a post about the registrations for the Paris half marathon, which were opening that day. Though I'm not quite sure why, I clicked the link, and before I knew what was happening I was joining the online queue of people waiting for their chance to register.

For the sake of full disclosure, it's important to note that in the twelve months prior to this rainy September day, I had probably run a total of ten miles, over three or four runs. Three or four runs in a year, three or four runs which were completely unenjoyable, and yet here I was in some weird e-Line To Sign Up For A Giant Race. I'd run cross country in high school, but anyone familiar with my high school knows that being on a sports team at Villa does not an impressive athlete make. During college I had a couple of phases of "being into working out," but all good intentions fell by the wayside with the advent of senior year and its non-stop festivities. Though I managed, between graduation and moving to Paris, to get into pretty decent shape, I didn't keep it up once arriving in Paris. I signed up for the FPFP, the French Person Fitness Plan, which involves eating whatever I want whenever I want within a fairly liberal margin of reason, and also sometimes taking the stairs instead of the escalator in the métro.

So it was that I found myself doing something kind of extreme (how out of character!) and signing myself up for the Paris Half Marathon last year. I hesitated when I saw the 45€ price tag, but then clicked through to the confirmation page anyway. 

I didn't tell a lot of people about the race at first, because I figured that that way, if I chickened out, then I'd have lost nothing except the money I'd paid to sign up. Between that rainy September day and January, I didn't do much training. Paris was cold and dark, and I was very lazy and way more interested in eating oatmeal in my warm bed in the morning than ~*hitting the asphalt*~. But coming back from holidays in the States after January, I decided to actually do it. I ran. A lot. And I started to really love it, much to my surprise. I loved not only the running and the getting in shape part, but loved too the routine and the different perspective of Paris I gained on my runs. I learned not to run through Place de Clichy unless I wanted to be catcalled or stared at. I learned not to run through the Boulevard Saint Michel on a sunny weekend unless I wanted to trample (or be trampled by) tourists. I saw new parks in Paris I'd never seen before, I joined my fellow runners as we went around and around the Parc Monceau, the Jardins du Luxembourg, the Champ de Mars. (Side note: If you are a tourist in Paris in the near future, or a fellow resident, please do yourself a favor and observe the running clothes favored by many in these parks. Khakis, button-down shirts, polos, skirts (??!??), you name it! It's one of the more amusing parts of the sport.)

What I realized, once I'd kind of set my mind on doing it and started to work towards the goal of completing the race on the day, is that I'd been living in a kind of apatehtic in-between for quite some time. What I mean is that for the longest time, for years before now, my goal was to move to Paris. And well, once that was accomplished it was tough to think of new ones. In comparison to having achieved my primary goal, any others paled in comparison. Once I landed on this new one, haphazardly though it was, everything changed. I swapped long nights out for quiet nights in (well, sometimes). I favored early bedtimes in bed to watching Netflix before closing my eyes. I was motivated to do something for the first time in a long time, and it felt pretty good. Race day came, and when I crossed the finish line I miiiight have had a little tear in my eye. I was proud, and so glad to have done something I'd set out to do, and I admit I'd forgotten the pleasure that it brings. I decided to keep it up. 

Running has afforded me much-needed time for introspection and reflection. When I leave my apartment, no matter which direction I head I revisit my story over the past two years and beyond. I run past a bakery where I used to buy a pain au chocolat and an espresso every morning before class in 2010. I run through parks where one bottle of wine has led to another and to another with the sweetest friends on a warm summer afternoon. I cross the bridge where I'd kissed a boy as the Eiffel Tower sparkled. I pass my old tiny apartment, and take stock of how far I've come since living there. I huff and puff up hills that I'd previously wandered down, feeling lonely and homesick on a blustery fall day.  From the top of the Buttes Chaumont, I run with Sacré Coeur rising over the city behind me, and remember how breathtaking the view from the top is every time. I watch the sun come up over the Seine and sometimes pause on the quais to take in the beauty up and down the river. I ran by the river the day after the French Independence Day, and saw some sleepy-eyed patriots opening another bottle of red wine as the sun came up. I ran at the Château de Versailles and imagined Marie Antoinette sauntering through the gardens in her glory days. 

I'm never going to be one of those insane (but awe-inspiring!) triathalon addicts, and I surely will encounter extreme lacks of enthusiasm despite my current gusto... But for the moment I'm enjoying the enthusiasm I've managed to find. The quiet Paris that feels all mine in the morning is one that I'm so glad to have discovered, but ultimately it's a process of self-improvement and not of urban discovery. Over the hours I've spent criss-crossing the city this year, I've identified my own high points and low points. I've realized what still needs work, and what needs to change. I've recognized the people that are worthwhile, and others that might not be. I've learned to be very hard on myself, but also the importance of being kind to myself. Even when it's hard, the rewards are always there.

And if nothing else, the smell of croissants baking in the morning is worth getting out of bed for... Most of the time. xx 

P.S.: (Thanks, Heather!) Maybe one day I'll run this wine-fueled marathon... Any takers?

This morning, I woke up about an hour before my alarm and despite my best attempts couldn't get back to sleep. After a while, I decided to hop out of bed and go for a run - maybe I could use the extra time to fold the laundry that's been waiting for me all week, I thought. 

It was a sticky morning, not very warm but somehow very humid, but I was feeling great as I started running, and happy to feel less guilty about the enormous bowl of pasta I ate in front of the TV last night. I was hitting my stride along the Boulevard Haussman, beneath the covered arcades of the Galeries Lafayette department store, when I saw her. I almost ran past, but I found myself stopped in my tracks to see what was the matter.

A tiny cat was cowering in the corner of the closed department store window. Her eyes were round and scared, she had glossy fur and looked healthy, except for a ratty red leash tied around her middle. There are a fair number of people experiencing homelessness that set up camp near these department stores, and for whatever reason this population generally prefers cats to the dogs adopted by wanderers of other neighborhoods. This cat, though, was alone. She was meowing, crying loudly and frantically, and  I despite myself bent down to cautiously scratch behind her ears and sooth her as best I could. Looking up and down the arcade and around the corner, it became clear that she was abandoned.

A man on a scooter pulled up onto the sidewalk behind me, and he asked me if it was my cat. I explained that it appeared to have been abandoned, and could see that the man was pretty concerned about it. After muttering a choice expression or two under his breath about the people that left her there, he asked me if I could take it home. Anyone that knows me, I'm certain, knows that I love cats. We've got two grey cats at home, and I think I receive more photos of them from my family than I do of my family. I am, as they say "a cat person." When he asked me to take it, though, I knew I couldn't. I live with a roommate that I don't think would be a fan, I travel on the weekends, the cat could have diseases... Lots of reasons came to mind. I told him I couldn't, that my roommate was allergic, and hoped he'd take care of it from there.

Instead, he begged me to take her for an hour. Just one hour, he said, and he would come and get her. I felt skeptical. Maybe it's my newly-developed sense of street smarts, but something felt weird about taking a cat at the insistence of a stranger who swore he'd be back for her. As he picked her up, though, it became clear that the cat was very injured. Both of her back paws had mean gashes, one so bad that her little bone was visible through tabby fur. She kept crying, more pathetically then ever, and I agreed to take her. I exchanged numbers with the man, saving him in my phone as Monsieur Chat, and set off gingerly with the little cat.

I was about fifteen minutes walk from my apartment, and quickly realized that this wasn't going to be easy. Because her leg was broken, every time I shifted her position the cat cried desperately, the heartbreaking kind of cry that can't be ignored. I felt a bit overwhelmed, cursing myself for having stopped in the first place and wondering what the heck I was doing. Before I knew it, I was crying too, trying to comfort the little cat and also trying not to seem insane as I wandered home with tear-streaked cheeks, howling cat, and a tattered red leash streaming behind me (I wonder if I did a good job?).

Thankfully, today is recycling day in Paris and so there were boxes everywhere. If there's anything a cat loves, it's a box. I lay my little friend down in a box, and carried her home the rest of the way - no more tears from me and no more howling meows from her. When we got home, I brought her onto the balcony, not wanting her in the house and also not wanting to wake my sleeping roommate with the pitiful meows that were issuing from a fairly soggy cardboard box. I gave her some milk (the cat, not my roommate) and wrapped her in an old towel. I texted Monsieur Chat and let him know that we had arrived, and what time would he be back for the cat? To my surprise, he replied, and said he'd call me at 8:15.

Sure enough, I got a phonecall at 9 o'clock from Monsieur Chat, he was outside my building. Carefully closing the top of her box (there were airholes!) I brought the cat downstairs where MC was waiting with a standard cat carrier on the back of his scooter. Trying not to act surprised that this somewhat burly man had procured the perfect tool for the job, I helped him carefully put the cat inside, despite her yawling protests. He was taking her to the vet, and assured me he would let me know her prognosis. I made sure to make it clear that I couldn't (unfortunately!) take her, in case I really was the object of some weird scam where you end up with a cat whose leg has bone showing. We both looked in at the cat one last time, me and this Frenchman with a soft spot for felines. I went inside, threw out the mostly uneaten Tuna Feast and Pink Shrimp, and left for work.

Thirty minutes later, I received a picture message of my little friend at the vet office.

When we were younger, I remember traveling to Quebec with my parents and sisters for a vacation. I think I was around thirteen at the time, and it was a wonderful holiday, but there is one memory in particular that stays with me even today and that I revisit frequently (in addition to the memory of chocolately beaver tails, that is). Standing in line to check in at the Hotel Frontenac with my parents, I realized that the group in front of us were speaking French. I knew that my dad spoke French, so I asked him what they were saying - sure he wouldn't be able to tell me. To my surprise my dad listened carefully for a few minutes, then explained their conversation to me... which was ultimately something totally boring, but that is not the point.

I always remember this moment as formative, in its own funny little way. It was the first time I really thought about language in a real and practical way, the first time I realized that maybe speaking something other than English was useful, interesting, worthwhile (and of course, Dad, I realized your impressive French skills... Even when faced with those quebecois accents!).

As I started high school and picked French as my language of choice, I thought back to this moment frequently. I'll admit that there was some level of "if Dad can do it, I can do it too" involved in my resolve to "get good" at French. There was more to it than that, though. I couldn't get enough! I made lists of vocabulary, combed through my French textbooks for words I didn't understand. I made word associations, created bizarre links in my head to understand, invented mind tricks to remember some tricky lessons. I worked hard, but enjoyed it all the while. While I couldn't understand the first thing about how many whatevers were in a noble gas (sorry, Mr. I...), and never fully mastered Ms. Conway's infamously difficult word problems, I managed to find ways to understand most things that were contained in the French books.

Now, all these years later, I've certainly come a long way. All this being said, the word BILINGUAL is a big one, and not something that I'm ready to claim - in fact, I'm wary of most people who learned a language after the age of two and claim to be bilingual. One of the first things that people ask me upon learning that I live in Paris is whether or not I'm bilingual. But the truth is, language isn't easy. Becoming bilingual is a living process, not one that is accomplished in six weeks or months or not even in six years. I'm more than comfortable in French, it comes to me in dreams and in under-my-breath curse words and as the first instinct almost all the time. But I'm still learning.

Living life in two languages is so interesting. Because language has always been my "thing," though, this new experience brings to light so many fascinating questions (fascinating to me, at least) that I'd never thought of before. The most interesting of these is the most obvious: am I the same person in French and English? It's difficult to say.

As an expressive, talkative (read: loud) person, the initial struggle of not being able to express myself in French was second to none. The idea that I was unable to get a point across was an unwelcome one. These days, thankfully, I can express almost any point in French with decent rapidity and an accent that won't make a Parisian's ear bleed (and now, I'll confess that I'm getting anxious that this entire post is beginning to sound like a humble brag, but it's really not my intention - questions of language and identity are constantly swimming around in my head, and this post is an attempt to sort some of them out. I really am sorry if it comes across in another fashion!). However, though I have the right words now, and I know I'm being understood in terms of word comprehension, there comes a greater question of "Are they really understanding me?" I sometimes get the impression that my French self and my normal self are not the same. I speak in a different range, I use completely different expressions and gestures, even the facial expressions related to French and English can be surprisingly different. The French are notorious for using non-verbal audible communication, and those loud exhales and disapproving pursed lips can be difficult to shake once acquired as a habit.

This is a part of living in France that I didn't expect when I moved here. I never thought beyond the "get good at French" goal, and so never considered what came with linguistic comfort.  I hadn't realized the divide fully until I spent a weekend in Dublin with a close French friend. I happily spent several moments of the weekend translating between my aunt and uncle and my friend, but it became so apparent to me that the way I expressed myself in French and in English were completely different.

Working in an office that employs both French and American interns, too, has also been cause for reflection about this point. While I speak in French with the French girls, it feels strange to speak in French with the Americans - both because, well, there's a certain pretension to it, I feel, but also because I can't communicate the social cues and indicators that I'm used to indicating to an American peer. When I speak in French with the Americans, it genuinely can feel as if we're communicating from behind masks, which is funny because I feel confident I'm using the right words, but I'm still not sure that they're understanding me like they would if we spoke in English. 

Ultimately, there's no conclusion to make here; no "and so" that will satisfyingly round up my ramblings into a concise realization - and if the conclusion exists, it certainly won't be found on a Tuesday night after typing out one blog post. Though it raises many questions and demands many difficult answers, the dichotomy of self that comes with language acquisition is fascinating, but not life-altering. I'm not having an existential crisis and worrying that no one knows my "true self," nor am I worried that I'm being misunderstood as someone I'm not. I just think that reflecting on things like this is an important part of living abroad and so I've come to this space to do so. Though next time, I'll try to find a lighter topic... 

xx

I discovered something about myself during my junior year of college that was, initially, difficult to admit. Living in an apartment complex filled with other college students who begrudged the early hours of the day, who groaned at the first sound of their alarms poisoning the air, I admitted, finally, that I might be a morning person.

I came to the conclusion in rather a roundabout way.  Tired of attempting (and FAILING) to work late into the night like my peers, I gradually fell into a routine of going to sleep whether or not my homework was finished, and waking up early the next morning to finish it.  Where in the late evenings, I'd strain my eyes to read every line of text (read: Facebook status), and force myself to finish analyzing each image (read: Instagram post), the mornings were a completely different story.  As sunlit rays snuck through the slats of the blinds in our living room on Villanova's west campus, I happily finished the work that had seemed so impossible the night before.

The more I accomplished, the more I grew to love the optimistic silence of mornings.  Waking up and doing things, or even just having extra time to make coffee or breakfast at home, became something I looked forward to, though I'll admit it felt like I was kind of "doing it wrong". Wasn't this the kind of thing I was supposed to start appreciating when I hit 30? 

It's certainly not always true. I'm more than capable of sleeping all day, well past noon and onwards, if the night before has been a bit of a late one. But, in general, I find that there's lots of things worth appreciating about mornings - as I discovered all those years ago in the living room of the affectionately nicknamed Spaceship, waking up early can be worth it.

Now that spring is on its way, the sun is finally rising at a reasonable hour. During the winter, it's close to nine o'clock in the morning by the time the sun lazily appears, and it's only half past four when it calls it quits. As you can imagine, winter's short and depressing days mean that once the seasons start shifting, moods are improved noticeably. This morning, noticing that the sun was beginning to rise as I got out of bed, I decided to go for a run to the jardin des tuileries.. And I'm so glad that I did.

One of the main differences between Paris and New York is that Paris sleeps. New York, in my limited experience, is moving always in all directions with people from everywhere doing everything.  It's intoxicating, it's exciting, it's truly something incredible and worth treasuring about that special place. Paris, though, ... sleeps. Shops are closed by eight, and aside from some exceptions, bars close at two am. Though the street lights stay on, the Eiffel Tower light turns off at two (too often serving as a reminder to GO HOME AND SLEEP NOW on weeknds!).  The city becomes sleepy, quiet, calm.  It was into this calm that I ran this morning, and it was really exceptional.  New York's energy is exceptional too, but in a different way. The calm of Paris in the morning is something worth experiencing, if only for the buttery boulangerie smell permeating the air on every corner, the Seine floating lazily on by as though stretching its legs for the day. The Eiffel Tower, without its yellowy nightlight glow, seems sinister on the horizon until the sun rises, finally, welcoming Paris to the daylight.

The stillness and calm of Paris this morning, though thousands of miles from that living room in west campus, reminded me so much of the same quiet optimism of mornings that I first fell in love with years ago - and it feels so good to rediscover. When I Instagrammed the picture above this morning, I wrote beneath: "This morning, running along the Seine was so calm. It felt like Paris was all mine."  What I failed to grasp, though, is that Paris, and my relationship to it, IS all mine. Sometimes it just takes waking up early to realize it. xx 

Time to sweep the dust from this space and start using it again, I think. What do you think of this design?  I'm not convinced that it will stay, but I wanted a change and this will do for now. 

The past few months have been busy busy busy, but I've missed this blog. Never one for New Years Resolutions, this year I set myself several Birthday Resolutions at the end of January, among which a new resolve to return here more frequently.  It's important to me, and if it's enjoyable for you than tant mieux. Among other birthday resolutions: enjoy more delicious things, homemade and otherwise, see more new places, read, be more grateful. So far, I'm trying my very hardest with each.

I signed up, in a weird moment of spontaneity last autumn, for my first organized race. The race is in two weeks' time and though training for it hasn't always been enjoyable, it feels nice to accomplish goals, to stick to promises, but mostly to move.  Finding balance in life is difficult, but I think I'm coming pretty close and it feels so good. Paris is a beautiful place for running, even on the greyest of days and during the toughest moments of a run, the city manages to encourage me. Yesterday, an old man in a charming hat and cane bowed when he saw me approaching on the pavement, towards the end of a particularly challenging hour.  He cheered me on and patted my back as I passed, my step quickening with his encouragement.  Little things like that make it difficult to not enjoy life, don't you think?

The weather has been behaving extraordinarily well this year.  Far from the normal bone-chilling temperatures, the skies have been blue and the temperatures have been mild. While everyone back home is freezing to death under the polar vortex, over here there are hints of spring on every breeze. Days are getting longer, temperatures are staying in the high forties, and Parisians are hopeful that we've avoided, somehow, the usual terrible winter. I'll knock on wood, though, because I wouldn't be surprised if winter suddenly arrived at the end of February and stayed through til June..

Over the next few weeks I've got lots to look forward to. This weekend I'm bringing a good friend to Dublin with me for the first time. It's always fun to show people around somewhere you love, and I'm hoping that she'll enjoy discovering somewhere so very special to me. One of my closest friends from home will be arriving for a long stint in Europe in the beginning of March, and I can't wait to have a little piece of my heart come a little bit closer to me. Very special visitors, among them my parents,  and exciting travel plans mean that March will fly by, and I have a good feeling that warm weather won't be far behind (I'll knock on wood again, just to be sure).

These days are busy, and they're uncertain, but  they're certainly optimistic. I've still got lots of things to figure out but at least I'm enjoying the process.. Most of the time.

I'll leave it at that for today, as I have some frustrating red tape issues to clear up and some potato leek soup to get started... but do watch this space. I'm resolved to be back soon! (In the meantime, you can see what I've been up to via instagram here.) A très bientôt xo

When my family first moved to the States, we didn't understand Thanksgiving.

It seemed like a less-fun version of Christmas; a holiday with an uncomfortably orange color scheme based on celebrating a historic slaughter...

As the years passed, though, and as my parents' circle of expat friends in the States grew, our celebration of the holiday evolved. We came to the table together year after year from wherever home was - Ireland, the UK, South Africa, it didn't matter - and celebrated life together.  I grew to love the day, and not just for my mother's crispy roasted potatoes or my dad's now signature cocktails.

It's fair to say that by now we've figured out Thanksgiving, and it's quickly become one of my favorite holidays. I appreciate the way that it comes with no fuss and little commercialism, and is a whole day dedicated to family and friends and food.  What could be better?  I'm grateful that it's become a part of my family's own traditions, and also pretty glad that we know better than to go to a crêperie in Manhattan's gayborhood for our Thanksgiving dinner (that happened, once..).

While it doesn't exist in France, obviously, the sentiment is one that I can still appreciate.  I woke up this morning and excitedly thought, "It's Thanksgiving!"  Even with no prospect of turkey, and nary a trimming to be found, I'm still marking this day as important to me.

Though there's no outward indication that today is different from any other Thursday, I find that I'm feeling a bit more reflective than usual.

I'm certainly sad to not be with my family, but it's hard to complain when I'm lucky enough that one of my closest friends is here for the week.  Seeing photos from home make my heart ache a tiny bit, but I'll be home for Christmas before I know it, and I can still participate in the Thankful part of the day even if we're not all together.

There are plenty of Americans in Paris - I'm lucky enough to have been invited to two Thanksgiving dinners - but it's not just the food that makes this day what it is to me.

I'm especially thankful this year, again.  I've succesfully managed to live my dream for more than a year, even managing to fund it independently like a Real Grown Up. I'm thankful that I speak French, definitely thankful for cheese, thankful for bakeries that serve warm crusty baguettes at any given hour.
I'm thankful for the wonderful people that I've met over here, that continue to be so important to me, thankful that my family is so supportive of me, that they encourage and love me from so far away.  I'm thankful for the friends that are like family, for the same. Not many people run out of fingers when counting close friends, but I'm so grateful for them, and that staying in touch with them is easier than ever.

At dinner tonight, I doubt there will be turkey. But it's certain that there will be friendship and love and lots of laughter.  Most of all there will be thanks given - because really, I am so very grateful for so very many things - and so very thankful for the wonderful people that I love.

I hope you all feel equally lucky today, if not every day, because I promise that life's not so bad from where I'm standing.

Sending lots of love across that big ocean today! xo