Whys and Why Nots

Some reasons for leaving Paris. Plus, stunt doubles and the ThighMaster.

“So it got to you in the end, did it?”

This sentiment, or some form of it, can only be said by a person who has at one point or another made Paris home [or another foreign city, but especially Paris] despite it not being where they’re “from.”

Specifically, it was the reaction of an Australian chef I know who’s been cooking his way through Parisian dining rooms for over a decade. Last weekend, while eating at his new farm-to-table restaurant, he swung by our table to check in and ask me, “What’s new?” I told him I’d decided to return to the U.S. in early 2024, which prompted him to smirk and drop the aforementioned rhetorical question.

Validation! My god, it feels good because the decision didn’t come lightly and I’ve otherwise been receiving a ton of Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost responses attune to the likes of “You crazy, girl!” from anyone whose cell phone doesn’t start with +33 6 or 7. Few can understand the challenges, frustrations, and fury that come with living in France better than a fellow expat who has also experienced the challenges, frustrations, and fury that come with living in France.

Visitors taste the buttery croissants and see the Haussmanian buildings shimmer in the late-day light or consider the cigarette smoke billowing outside terraces sexy—things that also hooked me all those years ago. Even the smokers! So cool, I remarked. Now? Forget it. Ask any friend of mine here and they’ll confirm that I’d never sit outside due to the constant waft of cigarette stench unless my hair is going on four days dirty and even then I’d only sit en plein air if I weren’t eating. Or already drunk.

The point is, the novelty of Paris and its many idiosyncrasies has started to fade. The “#france, eye-roll emoji, lol” reactions I share with my fellow non-French friends in our group chat are no longer as funny to me. (Sorry, guys. Je t’aime toujours.) To be sure, I still walk around and marvel at the light, smile at the seasonal clementines, and relish the fact that it costs me $40 to get my teeth cleaned. I’m aware. I’m appreciative. I’m (mostly) optimistic. But some days, the water in my cup feels closer to half-empty and that’s not how I want to live, let alone remember my “Paris Years.” I want to go out with the same fullness, pride and wonder I came in with.

There has been much joy and many accomplishments, to be sure. (See: my friends and the 10-year visa.) But little things like buying linen, changing cell phone providers, and asking a butcher for a quarter-pound of ground chicken remain challenging for me. In the grand scheme of things, and the state of the world in general, this is NBD. I can, and do, get over myself. Plus, I do find fulfillment in figuring stuff out and learning something new. But after a while the brow-furrowing conversions and translations and the “Non! Pas possible!” responses become tiresome and can harden even the softest dreamer. I’m in my mid-40s. I’m single. I’m good with the always-something-elses and unnecessary demands on things that don’t need to make my head spin. At least not so often. Half the year in a 6th-floor apartment that’s double the size and comes with an elevator and a guardian? Sure. Pourquoi pas.

This brings me to Part 2 of my pourquoi. My why. I’ve shared with you how arduous it remains to be a travel writer and journalist in today’s content-heavy environment, where everyone’s an influencer and followers and like counts reign supreme. The hustle to pitch and wait and follow-up and hope to get a decent rate and research and write and rewrite and share and then get paid at some point in the near future before doing it all over again has also, like a pair of favorite socks you don’t want to get rid of but know you should, worn thin. And so you must. Get rid of them, that is. Only, in my case, I don’t necessarily want to wear socks anymore. (Metaphorically speaking, of course. Don’t think my flat feet can handle being bare.)

But unless it’s something remote, career pivoting or shifting in Paris would be an additional challenge given the language barrier. (Sue me for never quite remembering when to use “le” vs. “la” or how to pronounce “coeur” vs. “cours.” I got about as far as I could en Français and it is what it is.) And, anyway, socks or not, I’m ready to wear items from my purposefully curated wardrobe (thank you, soldes!) somewhere other than my bedroom/desk, a coffee shop, or the pharmacy to pick up toothpaste. While many people have migrated away from offices and are becoming their own CEOs here at Substack, I think I’d like to gather around the water cooler a few days a week again and bring home a steady paycheck I didn’t necessarily have to chase down. (Even if, yes I know, much of it will go to an overpriced apartment without a washer-dryer or a window in the bathroom.) LinkedIn profile here. :)

Now, I’m very aware that I craved the opposite of much of this about 10 years ago. But c’est la vie, eh? The grass-is-greener, yadda yadda. You try something. You love it for a while. And then you try something else. This is most definitely a privilege. But it’s also a choice.

Finally, I’m not having kids. Whoa, you’re thinking. What’s that got to do with anything? And also: That seems like a much bigger topic for another letter. (Indeed, even typing that out felt…a lot of things. But stick with me.) You know who does have kids? My sister. Two of them! (Actually, three if you count Kunu and we definitely count Kunu.) Do you know where they live? Los Angeles. This is very far from Paris—too far for a long weekend to celebrate a birthday or trick-or-treat at Halloween or just to babysit. I want to be able to do that without thinking about drastically long and costly flights and whose couch I’m sleeping on for three weeks while also nursing jetlag.

So! There you have it. Three “whys” for my forthcoming move. The “where” and “what” are still to come. (More cliffhangers! Fun!) Really, though, just as my moving here in the first place sparked me to reply with a simple “pourquoi pas?” to those who asked, I think the TL;DR here—beyond this beautiful, magical, life-boosting city “getting to me in the end”—is that maybe it’s just time for a change. Alors, encore, pourquoi pas? So, again, why not? Thanks for being here, friends. Stay safe. xx — Sara

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Clickable

• On falling, and how shame “isolates us by telling us we’re weird and wrong.” | The NY Times

• Elphaba and Glinda reunite 20 years after Wicked. | Vulture

• Dining with your mother’s ex in Paris. | The Supersonic

• The psychology of keeping tabs…open. | The NY Times Magazine

• A bittersweet summer in France amidst a looming divorce. | CNT

• Taylor’s dining adventures in NYC. | Vulture

• Chandler Bing: a conflicted but self-aware Friend. | The Atlantic

• Tips for building a joyful, child-free life. | The Guardian 

• The new business of running an old business. | The NY Times

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Watchable

The trailer for “David Holmes: The Boy Who Lived” just dropped, and it’s about Daniel Radcliffe’s former stunt double on the Harry Potter movies who sadly broke his neck on set and became paralyzed. The film is produced by Radcliffe himself as the two developed a close friendship even before the horrific accident. The movie premieres on HBO Max on November 15 so get the tissues ready.

“Just Ken,” aka Ryan Gosling, plays a stunt double himself in the new film “The Fall Guy” with Emily Blunt, which can perhaps only be appreciated after watching the aforementioned documentary because of Gosling’s sparkling baby blues. Still, based on the three-minute trailer that more or less gives away the whole movie, it looks like a fun, action-packed rom-com that we now have to wait until March to see in its entirety.

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Currently overthinking…

…email responses…train times…Airbnb bookings…

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Souvenir: ThighMaster

I spent much of my youth glued to the TV screen come 6 p.m., right before dinner, watching what was likely an inappropriate show for a girl my age: Three’s Company. Sing it with me: “Come and knock on my door…” So when I learned that one of its leading cast members—Suzanne Somers who played Chrissy Snow—died recently, I couldn’t help but take a trip down memory lane, which led me to the ThighMaster! I didn’t have one myself, but some friends’ mothers did and I definitely remember giving the apparatus a go on my inner groin. It was not easy, hence Somers was most definitely not the dumb blond she played on TV. I’m glad she got the credit she deserved in later years, which was documented in her NYT obit.