Who knew Lyon was so hilly? I guess everyone but me

Have you ever just put your finger on a map and gone wherever it landed? That’s exactly how I ended up in Lyon. Sure, I’d heard of the city, but did I do any research? Nope. Hello, calf muscles sent from the gods above.

When things went south in Paris I decided to go southeast. I wanted somewhere new and fast. After hardly sleeping, nearly losing all my clothes to an angry French washing machine and walking to the train station at the crack of dawn, I finally boarded a train to Lyon.

Half dazed and half asleep, I watched the scenery fly by and started to gather myself. Leaving that flat felt like pure relief. Traveling alone can be scary but somehow, I felt safer than when I was with him.

In Lyon, I grabbed my bags and headed for the exit, Sortie, for anyone new here. I clutched my things tightly since the only thing I was prepared for on this journey was getting pickpocketed.

Stepping outside, the sun hit my skin immediately. The area felt urban, with a huge mall across the way. For the first time in a while, I noticed everyone smiling and felt at ease. Trying desperately not to look like a lost tourist, I navigated to the buses only to wait thirty minutes and discover the line wasn’t running that day. August in France, am I right?

Back at the train station I figured it out and hopped on the next train. Lyon turned out to be much easier to navigate than Paris. At my stop I checked Google Maps for the hostel and got two options: wait for a bus or walk uphill about half a mile. I chose to walk and immediately regretted it. Lugging my overpacked rolling suitcase up stairs, narrow passageways and hills that would make a goat cry, I arrived drenched in sweat, my carefully planned outfit ruined.

When I reached the hostel, greeted by funky neon lights and equally sweaty patrons, I waited to check in, chugging lemon water and connecting to wifi to figure out dinner. Thanks to Boris on Fork, I found an Italian restaurant by Place des Terreaux that sounded perfect.

My hostel room was basically a black coffin with a curtain for a door, so I decided to explore the town first. I wandered past shops, tattoo parlors and vintage thrift stores, finally making it to dinner with my book and charger in tow. The restaurant was tiny but magical, like a cave carved just for diners. I resolved to enjoy the meal fully.

I ordered wine, truffle pasta and molten chocolate cake, and for hours I just soaked it in. Reading Beautiful Animals by Lawrence Osborne about a girl and her friend caught up in murder on a Greek island, I got lost in the story.

Eventually I noticed a friendly face watching me. He approached, apologized, and asked if I spoke English. Turns out he didn’t speak French but seeing me so absorbed in a book made his day. He even turned the music down so I could read in peace.

By the end of the meal I offered to exchange contacts and became friends with him. I left that restaurant smiling, listening to the nearby fountain, forgetting the fear of traveling alone and instead seeing the opportunity of all the friends I’d yet to make. 

French washing machines and stupid, stinky boys

I thought I had a friend in Paris. Now I’m not so sure I ever did.

Trust is hard to earn and even harder to keep. I guess I was delusional, thinking I really knew someone after all these years. But the truth is that you rarely know people at all.

I’ll call him Lucas because that’s his name.

Lucas invited me to stay at a flat he was housesitting in August. He called multiple times, talking about all the fun we’d have. I was still employed, so I could only stay a week, but I was excited. I’d known Lucas for almost a decade, since my study abroad in Angers, France. He was my semester romance: carrying my books, exploring the city, drinking wine, laughing, dancing. Sure, we were kids, but those memories felt real. Technology kept us connected after we went our separate ways, and I genuinely believed we were friends.

So when he asked me to visit, I said yes. Free housing, activities, other friends in town, it sounded perfect.

I arrived, met him at the eyeglass store where he worked, grabbed the keys, and dropped my stuff at the flat. Gorgeous place. I grabbed my first Parisian baguette and waited for him on the terrace.

When he returned, we opened a bottle of Prosecco. Now it’s important to know that I don’t drink to excess anymore, especially not around people I can’t fully trust. But I thought I could trust him. We’d been there for each other before, right?

We drank. We laughed. We danced. And then he leaned in to kiss me.

It was awkward. I kissed him briefly, then realized I didn’t want it. He tried to pull me close again. I laughed it off. I thought it was over. I was wrong.

Later, as I was falling asleep, he came over and started touching me. I said no. I told him to stop. But he didn’t. I froze, heart pounding, body tense. I tried to cover myself, hoping he would stop. His hands continued to roam across my body, trying to get under my clothes, and I felt him get hard beside me. I kept pushing him away and saying no, feeling like it was a bad dream.

Eventually, he fell asleep beside me.

The next morning, I felt violated. Confused. Angry. And somehow, I still tried to find excuses for him. This wasn’t the first time I’d been assaulted, yet the reflex was the same: blame myself, rationalize his behavior, hope for his approval.

Days passed. He ignored me. When he finally spoke, he told me to leave. He was jealous I was dating someone in D.C. and had made other friends in Paris. He acted cold, calculated, angry. The friendship I thought I had was a lie. Because I didn’t give him sex, I was worthless in his eyes.

Lucas is not my friend.

Maybe he had a little sister, maybe he swore he wasn’t “like that.” But in the end, he was just like the men we tell ourselves we’ll never let close. He apologized once, vaguely, more for himself than for me. Then asked for a hug—without waiting for an answer.

I was stunned. Confused. Watching a contradiction in real time…this was supposed to be my friend.

By the next night, he told me to be out by 7 a.m. knowing I had no money, barely speak the language, and was alone here. I cried. I begged. He refused. I called my partner back home, who calmed me, supported me, reminded me I wasn’t alone. I organized, booked a hostel in Lyon, and planned my escape.

At 2:30 a.m., I decided to do laundry before leaving. I crept quietly around the flat, threw everything into the machine, and sat on the floor, spinning with exhaustion and disbelief. When it beeped, the door wouldn’t open. Panic surged. I called my partner, sobbed on the bathroom floor, angry, frustrated, defeated.

Then I leaned against the machine and heard a click and was finally able to get my things out. French washing machines are temperamental as hell. They need time.

I layed down in bed staring at the ceiling for maybe 30 minutes afterward and decided it would be better to wait anywhere else than here. So I snuck quietly out of the flat, left the keys on the hutch, and walked to the train station where I immediately blocked Lucas on every platform. 

Lesson learned? Trust yourself first. Even with “friends.” Especially when everything feels overwhelming—pause, breathe, take a step back. And never forget: you don’t owe anyone your comfort, your body, or your peace of mind. Not even the Lucas in your life.

Lost, hungry and found: A night in the Latin Quarter

Visited the famous Le Caveau de la Huchette last night. And no I didn’t wait in line.

It all started with a dream about pasta. After a long day holed up in my apartment, I was starving and figured: why not explore? The 5th arrondissement, aka the Latin Quarter, had never met me, so tonight seemed perfect. I hopped on the train and let Google guide me. It suggested Rue Mouffetard. Sounded good.

I wandered along the street, eyes wide at the cafes, brasseries and tantalizing smells, but my heart had only one craving: creamy, perfect pasta.

And that’s when I found… something even better.

As I searched for my next stop, trying to navigate without face-planting into a lamppost, I passed a guy in bright colors with a friendly grin. I smiled. He smiled back.

When I finally reached a restaurant, my stomach ready to declare victory, the door… was closed. Cue dramatic growl.

Resigned, I put my phone away and decided to let fate (or at least my feet) guide me. That’s when I heard:

“Bonsoir!”

It was the same guy. He started speaking rapid-fire French, throwing compliments my way. When he asked if I spoke English, my confused look probably said it all.

I said oui. He asked where I was headed. I admitted I was hungry and lost, a risky confession to a stranger, but one worth taking.

He offered to join me, and just like that, a friendship was born. We wandered to a nearby restaurant, he suggested the specialty (which I ordered), and we shared bread, wine and stories in broken franglais.

Then came the question:

“I hope not to bother you, but would you like to dance?”

I laughed. He said no, not here but he knew a place. Then, with a flourish, he paid for both our meals, and off we went.

Next stop, the famous jazz cave I’d seen all over TikTok. Forget the hour-long line, we walked straight in. Inside was hot, damp and buzzing with two levels, red velvet everywhere, a long bar on top, jazz pouring from below. We grabbed drinks and descended to the music, the crowd a whirlwind of ages, styles and languages.

I sipped, watched and for the first time in a while, took a deep breath in. I closed my eyes, swayed to the rhythm and just lived.

Sometimes, the best nights start with plans going wrong and end with jazz, strangers turned friends and a little magic in the Latin Quarter.

Did I make a horrible mistake?

I woke up like a punch to the gut.

How am I going to make money?
Will I ever speak French without sounding like I’m chewing marbles?
What if I never see my friends again?

Every doubt rolled through me, dragging bile with it.

I think I might throw up.

Who packs up their entire life in two days and just goes? No plan, no backup.
Was this a horrible idea?

And why did I only bring one pair of pants?

Maybe I’m too anxious to have fun.

I asked my friend (the one I’m staying with) if he wanted to go out since it’s Sunday and he doesn’t have work. A little wandering, maybe a café or two?

To my chagrin, he said no. Something about computer stuff and errands.

At first, I was annoyed. Didn’t he invite me to stay here? Didn’t he say he was excited to see me? Now it’s day after day of being ghosted... in person. I know this is his regular life, but I’m brand new here. So new, I still struggle to read signs and order basic things like coffee.

Fine. I’ll go without him.

I head outside, nerves ping-ponging through my chest. I pull up Google Maps, determined to visit just one outdoor market today. Baby steps. A blogger I follow recommended the one near Montmartre—Marché Bastille. Easy enough, right?

Wrong.

I finally make it to the train station, only to be met with an annoyingly chipper French voice making the same announcement over and over. Turns out the train I need is skipping this station.

Perfect.

Cue tears. Uncontrollable, silent sobbing.
Oui, c’est vraiment embarrassing.

It’s just a train. But I feel helpless. Hopeless.
Why am I even trying to move here if I can’t navigate the metro or speak the language? (Despite years of French lessons, I might add.)

Three deep breaths. I regroup. Google says I can take a local train that’ll get me close-ish. I decide to wing it and walk the rest.

Six stops later, I end up somewhere in the second arrondissement. Head down, glued to my phone, I bump into someone and finally look up.

And there it is.

One of the largest churches I’ve ever seen: Église Saint-Eustache.

So I go in.

It smells like something old and sacred, stone and creek water.
Huge stained glass windows, quiet candles flickering at the altar, it’s absolutely stunning.

I wander in awe, wondering how this even got built.

When I finally emerge, the smell of roasted chicken hits me. I follow my nose and stumble upon another outdoor market winding down. I meander through it, snapping photos of all the produce, cheeses, spices, and meats.

I keep walking until I find a charming street full of cafés and brasseries. Tourists are everywhere (rolling suitcases and loud English gave them away).

Then I spot it: Galette.
I know what that is. I know it’s delicious. So I stop.

I try ordering in French. After a little back-and-forth, the waiter pauses and asks, “Tu parles Anglais?”

I sheepishly nod. He smiles and switches to broken English. Turns out he’s learning, too.

I apologize for my butchered French. He shrugs and tells me I’m doing well. And if anyone makes fun of me for trying, well they aren’t good people to be around anyway. Then we talk—really talk. He’s curious about the States:
“Is the gun violence really that bad?”
“What do you normally eat?”
“Where exactly is Washington, D.C.?”
“And what do you mean it’s political?”

He brings me a glass of cider (their specialty) and my galette—ham and cheese perfection.

As I eat and people-watch, he returns. Introduces himself as Louka. Asks if he can sit with me during his break.

A kindness I desperately needed.

We chat and munch. He brings over different spices, insists I try them. (He’s right. Instantly better.)

When his break ends, I muster every ounce of courage and ask for his contact info, maybe we could hang out sometime?

He lights up. “Of course! I’d love to go to a movie with you. American films are my favorite. There’s one coming out I’ve been dying to see.”

He gives me directions to a spot by the Seine with street vendors, and just like that, I’m off again.

Maybe (just maybe) this wasn’t the worst idea after all.

Paris 📍France

The one where I lose my job and move to Paris. Oui, really.

Am I crazy? Am I absolutely batshit?

Who gets fired and, within days, puts all their things in storage, packs a carry-on, and books a one-way flight to Paris? No savings. No plan. Not even a real suitcase.

Especially not someone like me. I’m the anxious type. I thrive on routine. I need pitch-black silence, a fan overhead, and exactly one leg out of my own familiar sheets to sleep. MY sheets. Not hostel linens. Not guest couch cushions.

So yeah…what the hell am I doing?

All I know is that job was killing me.

I made it my life. Working in news meant clocking in to the worst of humanity, day after day, when all I really wanted was to make people feel something good. I tried. I pitched my own show. I did my own interviews. Wrote my own pieces. But there was always another disaster, another shooting, another soul-crushing headline.

I was burning out. Fast.

So maybe losing that job? The best thing that ever happened to me.

Sure, I complained about leaving, who doesn’t? But when was I actually going to go? When I had the perfect savings? When my student loans magically vanished? After year 10 of working weekends and holidays and canceling every plan with people I love?

I was white-knuckling my way through life.

Hanging on until “someday.”

Waiting for a day off I’d be too exhausted to enjoy.

And honestly, why was I beating myself up over a place that treated me like garbage?

Rats falling from the ceiling.
Scanners blasting full volume at my desk.
Commuting two hours a day just to be ignored or undermined.
Selling my car because I couldn’t afford the gas.

A boss who never had my back.

Overtime without pay.

Holidays spent under fluorescent lights instead of twinkle ones.

Blankets instead of turning on the heat (seriously, that was their “gift”).

A director who insulted our appearances behind closed doors.
A newsroom that chewed up creativity and spat out scripts.
A dream job that slowly, steadily, started killing my light.

No. Even if they called tomorrow and begged me back, I couldn’t go.

I’ve been so unhappy for so long.

Trying to survive instead of actually live.

And right now? I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow. I don’t have the answers.

But I’m finally moving. And for the first time in a long time — I’m not wasting another minute.