Today has been one of those days, and it's only ten o'clock.

This morning, like every morning this week and last, I pulled myself out of bed early to study. In the midst of exams, and thanks to my inability to do work at nighttime, the mornings have been mine. Productive, quiet, in solitude but not feeling too alone. My morning doing work has been the same for years, since I first discovered I was a morning person years ago. I take my time waking up, but when I do I make tea or coffee and pour it into a mug, bringing it into the living room to start the day.

The mug is a great one; big enough to hold the whole contents of my Moka cafetière, big enough to keep the heat in for ages. Its sides are not too thin, not too thick. It's really the perfect mug. Or, rather, it was. Because this morning, after having finished my coffee and wanting a break from studying, I walked to the kitchen in my pink bathrobe (to tell the truth I also had a pink blanket wrapped around me like a beautiful maxi-skirt, for a bit of extra morning glamour). I turned on the light, crossed the doorway, and promptly let the sleeve of my robe get stuck on the handle, somehow jerking my empty mug from my hand and projecting it onto the hard tile floor. The rational response probably would have been to sop up the dregs of coffee that were now on the floor, carefully sweep the shards away, and continue with my studying. Instead, I burst into big fat tears, covering my eyes so that I wouldn't have to see my very favorite mug of all time, no more. Ugly tears, loud tears, echoing down the long hallway of the empty apartment.

I know, I know. It's so stupid. I felt stupid at the time, I feel stupid now, I will feel stupid later. But let me explain a bit more, maybe you'll judge me a tiny bit less.

My town got a Starbucks years ago. It replaced a family-run pharmacy which was a bit of a sore spot for a while, until we all forgot Hyatt's and happily let our caffeine-riddled brains take us to Starbucks. It became THE place to be, the weekend activity for the junior high crowd was "GOING TO STARBUCKS(!!!)". During the week, it was the place to covertly meet my high school boyfriend after we both got out of school. Both in our uniforms, we sat on the comfy velvety armchairs in the window and hoped our parents wouldn't drive by and spot our cars, as we'd both invented other places that we supposedly were. On weekends, it was a spot to meet friends to "do homework"; to ignore physics equations and skim the pages of Grendel over sugary lattes and, later, in moments of pre-prom cliché, skinny lattes. The smell of that place stayed on your clothes, it still does.

When I moved to Villanova, I bought a mug in that little Starbucks, a white mug with tall sides and a green logo on the front. I didn't know why, at the time. I don't particularly love the coffee at Starbucks. Something about that mug, though, appealed to me, and I suddenly felt frantic to have a memory of the little spot on the corner on Yardley's main street.

My first semester, I used it all the time. For microwaved tea, using teabags my family had brought back from Ireland. For instant coffee, for Vladimir vodka, for Brita-filtered water the next morning, for ramen noodles. Then, I broke it. It shattered on the floor of Stanford Hall, room 523, during the second semester of my freshman year. I felt a twinge in my heart, almost a tear in my eye, but quickly recovered and bought a new one.

The new mug was the same. Exactly the same. Same sides, same perfectly sized handle, same same same. I used it sophomore year in the quad, bringing it to the dining hall next door sometimes just because.  Junior year, I used it as I worked in the quiet mornings in our Moulden apartment, coffee from our very fancy Keurig-type machine or from the cafetière that later would explode and make a mess all over that little kitchen. I used it senior year, on the back porch of the Crack Spot on warm mornings, at the table in the weird in-between room doing homework, in my bedroom with tea stolen from the on-campus dining hall. It spilled on the carpet, it spilled on my desk, it spilled on the extremely discounted tablecloth covering our little round table. 

I brought it home after college and stocked it carefully in our kitchen cabinet, much to my parents' chagrin. My dad called it a "bucket", and it's true that it towered over our other little mugs; the Ireland world cup commemorative mug, my mum's always-reliable Hot Babe mug by Jamie Oliver, the slim faux porcelain mugs with cheesy pictures of Michelangelo's David that Dad bought in a dollar store somewhere and always insists on using, my big sister's Milkboy Bryn Mawr mug, and my little sister's inexplicable favorite: a garish Paris souvenir shop mug. When I moved to France at the end of that summer, I knew I'd be taking that mug with me. And so I did, carefully wrapping it in a scarf in my big red suitcase, the last item to go in and one of the first to come out.

Four years after buying it at the Yardley Starbucks, on a quiet street in the 7th arondissement of Paris, I unpacked my mug. My first apartment was tiny, only 105 square feet, and the mug was so out of place. In the cabinets were little espresso cups and small empty Nutella jars used as glasses, but I didn't care. If the mug was grossly "American" in comparison, that was okay with me. The first night alone in that tiny little apartment, in this country all by myself, I had a cup of Irish tea from the mug and felt a little comfort of the other homes I'd known, in my new one. When I moved, a year later, to my new and oh-so-improved apartment, I stuffed the mug in a big sock, throwing it in a box on top of some books and carefully loading it into the backseat of a friend's SmartCar, which would be driving me and all my possessions to my new chez moi.

Here, it fit into the cabinet among ash trays and tea bowls from Normandie with names printed on the front, ludicrously looming over every other item that my French roommate and her family had carefully stocked. She thought it was funny, had never seen a mug that looked just like a Starbucks cup. I'd kind of forgotten that that was its design, and thought for the first time that it was a bit of a weird thing to own, not being a fanatic of the café.

When I took up running last year, the mug became part of that ritual, too. I'd go out in the morning for my run, and come back to set my Moka on the stovetop while I hopped in the shower. Five minutes later, out of the too-short shower (anything for a longer lie-in!), I padded into the kitchen leaving watery footprints behind me. I poured the milk in first, then the coffee, then took the mug with me to my room as I got dressed. It would often sit on my desk, the last quarter of the coffee unfinished and cold, as I worked all day, staining the sides with rings that never quite came off. At night, I'd make chai tea from Marks and Spencer with soy milk and honey, glad that I was able to have an EXTRA big cup in my mug.

Which brings us to here, to today, to the last day in the last routine that my mug was part of. All throughout this new masters program, during moments of teary frustration or joyful victory, I've been sipping coffee from this mug. Until today.

Today, there are a lot of far more important and earth-shaking things to cry about. The mood here in France is so heavy, I'm frightened walking home alone in a way I've never felt before. Bags are checked at the entrance to every building at my university, and even in some shops. Police officers with AK-47s stand guard outside synagogues. Every siren fills my stomach with dread, and if a lone siren is followed by others, the dread multiplies each time. This is a feeling I can tell is shared, by the tense looks exchanged as the wailing grows louder.

The times are grim and the future feels extremely uncertain. Abroad, there are losses of life much larger than the Charlie Hebdo massacre seven days ago, without doubt. Somehow, though, this attack has left France feeling shaken in a way that I could never have predicted. Charlie Hebdo is just so French. It captures the heart of so much of French culture, of French life, of the French psychology. Perhaps that is why it feels so extremely personal, so hard to swallow, so senseless.


This morning, at half past six, before starting my work I slipped out into the dark street and headed to the end of it, to the newspaper kiosk to buy a copy or two of Charlie Hebdo. When I arrived, I heard the vendor telling the few people in front of me that it was sold out, that we shouldn't bother looking, it was sold out everywhere. "He must be mistaken," I thought. The newspaper printed fifty times its usual number, three million copies in France... Surely, before 7am on a sleepy Wednesday, I'd find a copy. I tried another kiosk, and was told the same thing. People everywhere were being turned away, being told they were too late, that the copies were long gone. It's staggering to think that hundreds of thousands of copies (not all three million were on sale today, they'll be distributed all week) were grabbed up before most people were awake. Maybe it's a sign of how desperately we're all looking for something to hold on to, some proof that things will be rebuilt, that Charlie Hebdo and freedom of the press will go on.

I know that France will rebuild; if this country knows how to do anything (and it knows how to do a lot of things), it certainly knows how to rebuild. It's a country that has defended its liberties throughout the ages, long before Charlie Hebdo was founded. I know that France will recover, but it will take a while for the darkness to lift. The shadow that has fallen over the country is a heavy one. What's certain, thankfully, is that the sun will shine again, over picnics and cold rosé and cigarette smoke rising over laughter from café terrasses.

Not today, though. Not for a while.

On a much smaller scale, too, there are other things that are weighing heavily on me at the minute. Coming back to Paris after being home is never an easy transition, but this year it feels especially tough for many reasons. It's no fun boarding a plane and leaving behind so much of my heart only to face a week of exams for which I feel entirely underprepared. 

The mug, though. The mug. With all the big things happening, my heart still sinks when I see its sad broken side. I still feel stupid, I still feel childish, but I am so sad that it's gone. That mug was one of my favorite things. It has been with me in so many places, geographically and otherwise. It's been a constant when things have been in flux, over and over. I'm not going to cry about it anymore, but I'm going to miss it very much. When I replace it, it won't be the same. I think, though, the best thing to do is to think about all the new places I'll bring its replacement, to imagine all the mornings to come and to wonder where I'll be.

Because all we can really do sometimes is dry our tears, or more importantly still, dry each other's tears, and try to move forward. There's no other place to go. xx

Being away from home is really hard during this time of the year. Though Christmas is drawing ever closer, and my flight to JFK is just around the corner, I'm thinking a lot about home.

Tonight, after my older sister cooks dinner for the family, my mother will fall asleep happy to have two of her girls home, the sound of their homecoming set to the constant hum of the washing machine and dryer. My sisters will fall asleep in their own rooms, maybe fight over who gets to sleep with the cuddly cat. They'll sleep in later than they expected to, and wake up to the sound of music already turned up in the kitchen, the sound of the long meal prep already beginning. When they come downstairs, Mum will already be in her apron and setting things in motion, and Dad will be near the bar, finalizing his choice of pre-dinner cocktails.

The smell of roast turkey will fill the house slowly but surely, and as the snow falls outside (this year!) , the fire will  roar inside. Two gray cats - one very very fat and one very very thin - will lounge around the living room, lazily sauntering into the kitchen when they smell the turkey being brought from the oven. Dinner will be early and long, but before all else it will be delicious. Mum won't sit down to the table until everything is just right in the kitchen, and as my sisters will chorus
"Mum come ON!", Dad might turn up the lights because he "can't see his food". 

After dinner, my sisters will do the dishes (Megan will claim I'M WASHING! or  I'M DRYING! whichever she deems easiest after careful surveillance) and they'll listen to Mum's iPod, harmonizing until one of them messes it up and they erupt into laughter and swat each other with tea towels. Then they'll pile into the basement, all four of them, into the cool leather couches and in front of the projector, ready to fall asleep in front of whatever movie they've agreed on.

Suffice it to say, I'll be missing lots. I'll be missing my family, our cozy house, the lazy fat cat, the skinny mean cat... But I won't necessarily be missing out.

It's an interesting thing to live outside of the States during Thanksgiving. This is my third year away from home, and I think it's been as good as any I've had. Last Thursday, I invited a few girls over to my place for an early celebration. In the afternoon my roommate and I decorated our apartment (and got distracted by making and drinking mulled wine), and I spent hours in the kitchen washing and chopping and roasting. The girls came, we had bubbly and foie gras, roast chicken and all the trimmings, lots of Bordeaux, pumpkin spice cake. We ate until we couldn't eat anymore, and as the wine bottles emptied and the candles dripped low, we finally got to my favorite part of any Thanksgiving meal: Go Around The Table And Say What You're Thankful For.

Sometimes this little ritual can feel awkward or forced or trite, but during this particular Thanksgiving, it was none of those. Instead, it was warm and touching in the least cheesy of ways. Hearing what my friends were grateful for last Thursday evening really gave me pause for thought, reminded me to add certain forgotten things to my own little list. This  year's Thanksgiving that I was lucky enough to share with these friends was really one of my favorites (and not just because I finally found the perfect candles for the table). I feel like this year, I really understood the whole thing in a new way. It's not about the family or particular friends, it's not about the food being perfect or the wine going perfectly with it. It's about the little moments, like the one that I enjoyed watching my friends earnestly list the things they were thankful for. These little snapshots, these little glimpses of warmth and humanity and love, these are what Thanksgiving is really about.

When we first moved to the States all those years ago, there were several things that we didn't really know about American culture. One of these was, unsurprisingly, Thanksgiving. Virtually unheard of outside of the US, my little immigrant family had no idea what we were supposed to be doing. Thinking we were doing it right, one year, we set off in our Sunday best to a small bistro in Greenwich Village, where we were the sole family in a sea of gay couples, and where my only real memory is eating a delicious crêpe for dessert. Over the years, though, we got the hang of the whole Thanksgiving thing. We sometimes gathered as a family of five, but we often gathered as a family of more. Among my parents' expat friends in the States, there were always other families, far from their own extended families, happy to share the meal. As we came to the Thanksgiving table year after year, the real point of Thanksgiving became clearer and clearer. The idea of "family" became less rigid, as we realized that the friends we'd made in the Sates were like our own extended family, a home away from home.

Ultimately, it's become pretty clear to me that it really doesn't matter where you are. It doesn't matter who you're with, it doesn't even matter if you're by yourself. The meals I shared with my family were no more or less special than meals I've shared here with friends, or in the States with various expats that also landed in Yardley. Although I'll be missing every moment of our Thanksgiving, and though my heart aches when I think about how much I'd love to be there, none of that is really the point of Thanksgiving, is it? 

The point is to take a minute and feel a little bit of love, a little bit of gratitude, for the little things in life. It's a time to step back, to pause, to reflect, and to be thankful. And guess what? I've got a lot to be thankful for, this year more than ever. I'm living in my favorite city in the world, supported by family and friends from thousands of miles away. I've got a beautiful apartment, I'm studying something that really interests me, and I feel like I'm on my way towards Figuring It All Out. I'm so grateful to be here, and I feel so lucky to have so many wonderful people in my life (Thank you for being so wonderful, people in my life!).

From me, to you, on this Wednesday night in Paris, happy happy Thanksgiving, my friends. I hope you've got a lot to be thankful for this year. xx

I thought I'd write at the end of the summer.

I thought that in the time between golden summery sunsets and grey autumn skyscapes, I'd have time to sit down, to catch up, to take stock. But with lots of big changes and a new routine to get used to, time got away from me (again) and now somehow it's mid-November and I'm wondering if things will ever slow down enough to leave a moment or two aside.

But, even without the luxury of a spare few minutes to go into the details, I promise that this summer was such a good one!

The long long days and the warm nights, the picnics and icy-cold rosé and drippy ice cream and sticky fingers, laughing until my stomach hurt and drawn-out breakfast on the balcony and never sleeping enough. I wish I could package up those few weeks, those short summer months, and keep them like a secret beneath my pillow, to remember how good and how easy life can feel. Already, now, summer seems like a far-off memory, like something I might've dreamed up on a particularly dull and rainy afternoon (or an evening like tonight, where homework just doesn't seem like it will happen).

The weeks continue to pass at an ever-increasing rate. It feels like only yesterday that la rentrée was happening, the French name for "where's-your-scarf-you-must-now-always-wear-it-back-to-school-back-to-work-back-to-routine-end-of-summer-end-of-sunshine-end-of-fun." Now, we're in the throes of business as usual, and the Parisians are back to their un-summery state of "eternally (and existentially) disgruntled". The sun is coming up later and later, warming our faces less and less. Though the autumn, so far, hasn't been a particularly cold one, there's a chilly note on the air, the hint of a threat of colder weather to come.

Since the end of September, I've started a Master's program. Getting used to being a student again has been an experience. I'd missed the learning, the thrill of really loving what I'm studying and the excitement of discovery. What I don't miss, though, are the early morning wake-up calls followed by back-to-back-to-back classes (I have 14 classes this semester!?) the exhaustion that seems impossible to be kept at bay, the stress of a particularly tough assignment. I hadn't sat in a classroom since the end of 2011 at Villanova, hadn't had to take notes or turn in papers or follow lectures. Being in school in France, in particular, is pretty different than being in school in the States, and the differences manifest themselves in sometimes surprising ways (I mean, I bought a pencil case. I realized I was the only student in my amphitheater class without a pencil case, and so I bought one. I am a nearly 25 year old Master's student with a floral pencil case.) It's been good, though, to create new habits, to ease into a new routine and to find my bearings. The years since college graduation have taught me so much, and I'm grateful to feel like I'm heading in the right direction, finally. Change can be such a good thing.

This time of year, though it came upon us so quickly, is one of my favorites. The Christmas markets opened this weekend around the city, and already, the lights are up around Paris. It's not hard to imagine why Paris is known as la ville lumière at this time of year, where twinkling strings of lights swoop over every street and through every tree branch. Walking beneath the awning of the grands magasins, it's a comfort to hear familiar Christmas music piped over the window displays. The Christmas season seems to start earlier every year, but I'm happy to begin the march towards the end of December, which promises cozy nights around the fire at home, snuggling with the cats, reuniting with my favorite group of people over a drink or two (followed, always, by morning after bagels), and the other countless comforts of home. Before all that, though, my roommate and I will deck the halls of our chez nous, ready for a Thanksgiving among friends and mulled wine taste-testing and lots of Christmas music and general festivity.

Not so deep in the back of my mind, ideas for my next year are already simmering. There will be a quarter-century birthday celebration, a visit to the desert, an autumn wedding, a few more races, and exciting visitors. I've already got a really good feeling about it all, about the next year in general, and I can't wait to ring it in with some of the people I love most.

Something tells me, though, that this year's still got a lot left to give. xx

Two years ago today, I left behind a pink bedroom in a red house, two grey cats (one fatter than the other), two freckled and redheaded sisters, two wonderful and supportive and loving parents, and a circle of friends that feel as close as family. Two years ago! Time is a funny thing. There are days when it goes so quickly and I can't stand how fast my life is passing by; days that I want to last forever end too quickly and moments I want to savor for ages are gone before I've blinked. On other days, time drags on and on and on and I want to scream and break something or run somewhere or do something, anything, other than waiting for another boring minute to pass by

I haven't decided how it makes me feel to acknowledge that two years have gone by, now. On one hand it sounds so terribly short - what can I possibly have learned in such an insignificant period? How can I possible have evolved? On the other hand, though, the days that have passed between September 5th 2012 and today are an eternity, filled with so much love and beauty that I can never remember them all because there's too much to grasp. There are moments, though, that stick out to me as I look back, and the joy contained in these little moments is reason enough to continue to seek more out.

It's no secret that there are no shortage of beautiful views in Paris. They're everywhere. There are the iconic views - the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame - which are undoubtedly breathtaking, even now. There are clichés that still make me smile - a man in a striped marinière shirt with a baguette under his arm and a cigarette hanging from his lips, or a beautiful slim woman navigating cobblestones succesfully in impossibly tall and thin stilettoes. In Paris, there are Haussmann's buildings and boulevards, there are wooded groves bursting with greenery, there are the looming high rises of La Défénse, there is the Seine, there are the sidewalk cafés...This city is a veritable feast for the eyes at every corner.

The sights are beautiful and I devour them ravenously, happily. The day that I don't feel a thrill in the pit of my stomach watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle late at night is the day that it might be time to go home. I've been thinking lately, though, that Paris offers a whole other dimension beyond what it looks like. As I think about the past two years of my life, this two year relationship that I've been building with this place, I realize that lately, I've been noticing more than how things look. Lately, I've been thinking a whole lot about how Paris smells. Stick with me, here.

It's not surprising, really. I've always felt a particularly strong connection between smell and memory in my own life. There are smells that will stay with me all my days: the smell of my parents' perfumes as they leant to kiss my sleepy forehead goodnight on date nights; the basement of the church we attended, where we practiced for school plays and talent shows and ate donuts after Mass on Sundays; my grandmother's cooking filling her bungalow on a drizzly Dublin afternoon while Grandad watched the TV in the next room; Sunday morning crêpes at our home in Yardley, the Nutella inevitably smeared on mine and my sisters' and fresh lemon for my parents; chlorine from summer after summer at the community pool, a smell that seemed to come from our skin by the end of each season. I'll never forget the smell of my high school hallway, nor the senior lounge where we drank coffee and hid from nuns wondering why we weren't in class, nor of my first boyfriend's car when we drove along the Delaware on weekends. And then, of course, there was Villanova - fresh laundry from the basement of Stanford, illicit smoke rising from the quad to our room in Sheehan; the stairwells of Tolentine on a 90 degree September afternoon; Vladimir vodka/Crystal lite cocktails in the shower; stale beer lingering The Morning After and coffee and sandwiches from Bagel Factory; the Pit on a weekend morning; the third floor of Falvey Memorial Library...

So many moments have been captured just by breathing in - entire experience summoned just by catching a familiar hint of long ago on the air. Just like before, in my childhood and in high school and college, I'm making new connections and discovering new reminders with each turn. I'm cataloguing this Chapter In My Life as I've done with so many others before. For what it's worth, I'm willing to argue that the smells of Paris are a close second to the sights. There is nowhere on earth that smells as heavenly as the outside of a bakery at five a.m., the comfort of butter and sugar and all things forbidden beckoning on a well-timed breeze. And then there's the smell in the cafés, a croque monsieur or an entrecôte at the table next to you making you wonder if maybe you actually are hungry, after all...

There are so many places I've been over the past couple of years, people I've met and laughed with, things I've eaten, so much life has been lived and enjoyed that it's no wonder that it's been such a sensory experience. There's the smell of my first tiny aparment, a bit musty but HOME for the very first time in a new place; the sugary smell of the candy stand near Odéon that I used to pass daily; the crêpes and waffles being made a bit further down the intersection. There was the cheap cologne my students used to douse themselves in, the imitation perfumes that the girls applied while I looked on, not daring to reprimand. There's my office, which is situated juuuust close enough to a bakery to smell the morning baguettes, and then the midi, and the evening, so that every time I'm outside I'm tempted. The smell of Ricard on a sunny afternoon on a beach in the South, playing pétanque, or seeking shade on Chez Prune's terrasse on the Canal Saint Martin. There's smell that hits you if you pass the fromagerie when its door is open, the smell of the saucissons hanging from a vendor's stall at the market. There are the rôtisserie chickens that I pass on my bike past every night after work, spinning lazily over new potatoes and, I'll have you know, inspiring me to roast a chicken for the first time myself. In the parks there's the smell of freshly cut grass, of gravel that's been walked on for centuries, and in the street the damp smell of the street cleaning that Paris is famous for. There's the smell down by the Seine, not pleasant but certainly not forgettable, a mix of stale tallboys of cheap beer, spilled red wine, long-extinguished cigarettes. And of course, then there's the smoke - oh, the smoke! At café tables, at bustops, walking out of the métro, walking into it (and sometimes, late at night, inside it), running behind a commuter on his way to work in the morning. It's outside every restaurant and inside some daring bars, it's outside businesses at ten o'clock, two o'clock, four o'clock, the end of the day. It's in playgrounds and outside churches, on Vespas and in SmartCars. It's incredible, it's unavoidable, and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere. If there's one smell for Paris, if I could try to capture the whole city, it would be mainly composed of cigarette smoke.. with hints of freshly baked baguettes and camembert.

It was never a conscious decision to stop looking around so much and start noticing other things, but it happened somewhere along the way. I like to think it's a good sign, a sign of making a real and good life here, more than just enjoying the sights. I'll look forward to the time in five or ten or twenty years when I catch a hint of something that brings me back to this time, to this here and now. Who knows where I'll be by then? 

For now, though, I'm still happy to be here, I've still not had enough. This weekend, to celebrate the past two years and in happy anticipation of the next, I'll take myself out for dinner and raise a little toast to me, to Paris, to the life I'm trying to make for us together. Here's to another year with you, Paris. I really do love you. xx

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.