I Am Here...'And Change'

Reflections on being here, in New York, for 525,600 minutes. Plus, a special event announcement and TCBY!

Jan 31, 2025

On a bien arrivée. We have finally arrived at the one-year mark since I returned to the U.S. from Paris after calling it home for nine years. You know what happens now, right? I can no longer say, “I just moved back.” I can no longer reference the month—February—without qualifying it first.

“I moved back in February.” Nope, now it’s “last February.”

I don’t want to be like the parent who refers to their kid in months even after they turn one. My niece Dahlia is 15 months (but really almost 16!) so I do get it—and I’m only the Aunt. She’s a year and change—and a lot of development happens in the “and change” part. Likewise, I feel like my story is still developing, too. But imagine if I started saying I moved back 15, 18, 22…months ago? It just doesn’t have the same ring to it. And so, while I know I am the author of my own narrative and can call or define it any way I please, I’m cutting myself off and going to try to move on.

The thing is (I said, try!), moving on when I haven’t moved much beyond where I had anticipated moving during this fateful one-year period is a chewy escargot to swallow. I still don’t have the full-time staff job that I seek. I still haven’t unpacked many of the boxes I shipped back. I still sleep at my brother’s house and use my parents’ address as my billing info. I’m still confused about what to drink in the morning! The only thing I’ve gained is some weight and a reputation for being a reliable dog sitter and someone with incredibly high standards when it comes to dining out.

The year went fast. But the year also went slower than tourists walking in Times Square. It’s tough to measure, really. (In daylight? In cups of coffee?)

It feels too soon to provide a comprehensive list of the differences or what I miss most (or don’t) beyond basics: proper butter, fruit that doesn’t mold a day after purchase, and, well, my general day-to-day and dear friends. My life here feels so drastically different from my life in Paris due not only to the obvious (language, landmarks, goat cheese that’s not just crumbled, etc.), but to some of the aforementioned personal circumstances. It almost feels like any sort of comparison contest would be cause for disqualification. Like, “We’re sorry, please play again next year. There’s not enough qualitative and compatible evidence to provide substantial results.”

Still, after I spent a silly amount of time putting together one of those year-in-review Reels around New Year’s, the timing of which more or less coincided with when I left Paris, I was reminded how much I made the best of my not-so-typical situation. (That one’s for you, Dave Matthews.) So maybe dogsitting or joining a play or arranging the most epic garage sale and having to remind my New York friends that I live here now, were all unplanned and, at times, humbling. They all at least revealed my resourcefulness, gutsiness, and fondness for both community and autonomy.

In some ways, I never could’ve predicted half of the things I’d endeavor to manage this transition, but at least America provided me with what I did hope for in the communication, comprehension, and customer service department (a certain new president’s rhetoric notwithstanding): I said I wanted to be able to converse with and understand people better, and I do. I said I wanted to be able to return the likes of Amazon packages and mascara with ease, and I can. (Seriously, Sephora’s U.S. return policy is bonkers! Try it, hate it, return it—at any location, no less—and boom, money back or get a new product in its place. Try doing that in France and end up like Marie Antoinette with your head in your lap.)

An English language life, in Customer-is-Always-Right America, is best for me right now. It’s not necessarily tastier or as affordable, exhilarating, and politically lucid (though, even that’s becoming debatable in the land of Liberté, Equalite, Fraternité), but win some, lose some. And, hey, at least I’ve got Broadway!

Last week, playwright Sanaz Toossi’s new Pulitzer Prize-winning production “English” moved me to tears. Not only because I saw it just as this fateful one-year mark quickly approached, and as I continued trying to make sense of the perhaps rose-colored goals I’d set into motion. But because her humorous and heartwarming play takes place in an English language school in Iran where her English was my French. I’d been in her exact position (a classroom where one’s native tongue is forbidden) and felt those same feelings (inadequacy and shame while simply trying to string sentences together). Through conjugations, phrases, and pronunciations her ensemble depicts why speaking in their native tongue of Farsi best represents their true selves. Yet, on the flip side, it also unveils how and why anyone might still want to learn a foreign language, not to mention continue to waltz with the culture it represents despite the frustrations any fumbles may present: Because it makes us feel. Full stop.

Like it or not, and perhaps ironically, French now tethers me to the country I left and brings up contradictory feelings. Now, when I hear someone speaking French I am transported to rue Paul Bert where the scent of fresh baked croissants used to waft up to my 6th floor window and I want to join in. Imagine that! Just the other day, I learned a French speaker was working the cash register at my local Trader Joe’s. I brought my basket filled with dark chocolate-covered almond butter pretzel nuggets, pre-cut butternut squash, and chunky jalapeno and artichoke dip to his line. As he scanned item after item, we chatted about nothing and everything en Français. I spoke loudly, and proudly, despite all the mistakes I knew I was making, and cherished the watchful eyes and eager ears of those around me wondering what we were saying. I walked out into the parking lot not just with an armful of unnecessary snacks, but with the goofiest smile on my face.

A few weeks prior, when Jess was visiting from France and we were in a shop in SoHo with a very aggressive salesperson, we chatted in French to disguise our discussion. It felt sneaky and savage in a way that speaking English in France did not. There, I felt it only pinned me as a tourist, which I wasn’t. I lived there so I belonged! (And therefore probably should’ve spoken more in French, but I digress.) Here, if I were speaking French I’d probably also be pegged as a tourist—or maybe not because of my debatable accent—but I don’t care. Let me be a French tourist!

When I first returned last February (!) I considered doing an experiment where I’d go an entire day speaking French in NYC as if I were visiting and couldn’t speak any English. The goal would be not only to see how people treated me but also to see how it felt to “be French” for the day outside of France. Only the thing is: I’m not French. I’m a New Yorker who, on a whim a decade ago with some determination, gusto, and a questionable dossier, spent a very special time in Paris. I am certain that no 10-year visa, or even coveted nationality, would make me feel otherwise—whether I’m strolling rue de Rivoli chaussons aux pommes in hand or Fifth Avenue with a bagel. I’m just not a “fake it, ’til you make it” kinda gal. Which is why, I suppose, I am here—by choice!—at this potentially unmiraculous, but hopeful and vibrant juncture, biding my time behind slow-moving sightseers at the crossroads of the world. There are no regrets, so please stop asking. Pangs of heartache and yearning, oui. But absence always does make the heart fonder. In the words of the late great Jonathan Larson, “I can’t control my destiny, I trust my soul / my only goal, is just to be / there's only now, there’s only here.”

And here I am.

So I’ll do the thing the cycling instructor asked me to do yesterday morning while I was quite literally spinning my wheels in place, inside a darkened room, not only hoping to burn some calories from all those processed provisions but also to find some clarity as I segue from one-year into the “and change” portion of my tale: I’ll listen to the beat, try to keep up, and let some lyrics in a language I can easefully understand be a guiding mantra:

May the light be upon me
May I feel in my bones that I am enough
I can make anywhere home
My fingers are clenched, my stomach’s in knots
My heart it is racing, but afraid I am not
I am here, I am here
—Pink

Thanks for being here with me. xx — Sara

Clickable

A beautiful musing on being amid the LA wildfires. | Intelligencer
What to wear for jury duty on a murder trial. | Laurel Pantin
Holy shit: when your Mother is your cyberbully. | The Cut
TikTok: Gone, and likely soon forgotten? | The Atlantic
“To have nothing to say is liberating.” | Sophia Efthimiatou
After “a season of disappointment” Jill Biden reflects. | WaPo
Exercise has come a long way since the ’70s. | The NY Times
The Corsican adventure I took with my brother is finally online. | T&L

Watchable

I can’t listen to or watch actual Trump, but boy do I love watching SNL poke fun at him and James Austin Johnson’s fake Trump is uncanny. Bonus points for including Lin-Manuel Miranda as Hamilton in last Saturday’s Cold Open.

Currently overthinking…

…the bio I submitted for a talk I’m moderating in a few weeks… (info below!)

Souvenir: TCBY

Before there was Red Mango, Pinkberry, and 16 Handles there was TCBY. An acronym for “The Country’s Best Yogurt,” this “healthier” frozen treat took the States by storm in the late ’80s and early ’90s with flavors such as (my favorite) White Chocolate Mousse. I topped mine with hot fudge, but wet walnuts were another popular choice. Were you a fan?

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