“Life happens fast—just jump in.”
-Ina Garten
There is a detail no one really prepares you for when you decide to fly to France with pets: each animal needs its own human escort. It’s not optional. It’s not flexible. It’s just one more rule in a growing list of very specific requirements.
Which is how my sister—affectionately known as “Doodle”—ended up coming with me. It didn’t take much convincing. A little arm-twisting, a little adventure, and suddenly I had a co-pilot for this next chapter of my life.
And then, two days before our flight, everything stalled.
The cats’ health certificates—the final, critical documents required for them to enter France—had still not arrived. No envelope. No confirmation. Nothing. I was so organized! I had checked every damn box!
I was still going. There was no version of this story where I didn’t get on that plane. School started in three days, and I had already rearranged my entire life to be there. That part was non-negotiable.
But the thought of arriving in Paris without them—without my Fifi and Sabrina—felt impossible. They weren’t just coming with me; they were part of how I was getting through it. The idea of stepping into this entirely new life without them left me with a kind of quiet panic I couldn’t quite shake.
To say I was panicking would be generous. This wasn’t a minor detail or a box left unchecked. Without those papers, they weren’t going anywhere. Months of planning, organizing, and orchestrating this move—all of it balanced on a piece of documentation that was nowhere to be found.
I was going to Paris, just without them, which broke my heart.
Then my mom, in a moment of calm, maternal brilliance, came up with a plan. My birthday was just a few months away, and she and Katie—one of our longtime family friends—would bring the cats to Paris themselves. All they had to do was take Fifi and Sabrina back to the vet, redo the health inspection, and pray the certificates actually arrived within the very specific ten-day window required for travel.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. And in that moment, something felt like everything. I could survive two and a half months on my own. Probably.
So, finally packed, I said goodbye to my kitties—far more emotional than I had anticipated—and to my mom. Doodle and I made our way to the airport, carrying what felt like the physical weight of my entire life in four very large, very unforgiving suitcases.
By the time we arrived in Paris, I was a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Bleary-eyed from the flight, from the tears, and from a taxi ride out of Charles de Gaulle that felt both surreal and never-ending, we were finally dropped off in front of 26 Rue Parmentier. Paris. I was actually here!
For about thirty seconds, it was magical.
Then reality arrived.
I had been sent what can only be described as a completely unhinged set of instructions from the letting agent. First, I was supposed to walk fifteen minutes to a convenience store to retrieve the keys using a “secret code,” which already felt like the beginning of a bad spy movie. Then there were the door codes—one for the first door if we arrived between 8 a.m. and 1 p.m., and a different one if we arrived between 1 p.m. and 8 p.m. Because apparently, the door had a schedule.
And just when I thought I understood the assignment, there was a second door. Somewhere on the “northeast side of the courtyard,” with its own equally cryptic set of instructions. At this point, standing on the sidewalk in Paris with four massive suitcases and rapidly fading patience, I began to wonder if I had accidentally signed up for an escape room instead of an apartment.
I tried the code for the first door. Nothing. Not even a courtesy beep. Just silence.
There was another “front door” about fifty feet down, on the other side of the building. Surely that was it. I tried that code. Also nothing. At this point, I started to wonder if I had somehow crossed an ocean only to arrive at the wrong address entirely.
Doodle, who had been remarkably supportive given the circumstances—and the four massive suitcases—finally said what we were both thinking: “Maybe we have the wrong address?”
It felt possible. Likely, even.
So I said, “You stay here with the bags, and I’ll go walk the neighborhood.” And off I went, up and down every nearby rue and avenue, dragging my jet-lagged, slightly unhinged self through Paris, trying to confirm that I had not, in fact, relocated my entire life to the wrong street.
Thirty minutes later, sweaty and defeated, I returned to find Doodle sitting on the curb, head in her hands.
“Yep,” I said. “This is the right address.”
She rolled her eyes just as the universe decided we had suffered enough. Someone exited the building, and without a word, we made a slightly undignified but highly committed dash for the door, dragging our bags behind us like fugitives.
Eureka. We were in.
Of course, that was only the beginning.
We stepped into a courtyard facing what appeared to be six identical doors. I have absolutely no sense of direction on a good day, and “northeast side of the courtyard” might as well have been written in hieroglyphics. So, once again, we turned to the codes.
And by “turned,” I mean we entered some variation of those codes approximately twenty-four times, on multiple doors, with growing desperation, until—miraculously—one of them opened.
Victory.
Then we met the elevator.
Calling it an elevator feels generous. It could comfortably fit one very small person or half a suitcase. So we hauled everything up to the seventh floor one piece at a time, making what felt like a series of Olympic-level relay trips until, at long last, we stood inside the apartment.
We had made it.
The apartment wasn’t grand, but it didn’t need to be. It was the kind of place that quietly understood its purpose—a soft landing in the middle of a city that never really stops moving.
Tucked into Neuilly-sur-Seine on Rue Parmentier, it sat high above the street on an upper floor, the kind you reach by elevator after a long day of walking Paris into your bones. Inside, it was thoughtfully arranged in that very Parisian way—nothing excessive, everything intentional. A separate bedroom with a proper bed (a luxury I would come to deeply appreciate), a small living space with a sofa that could double as a bed if needed, and a kitchen that, while ridiculously compact, was sort of equipped and certainly ready for ambition.
The bathroom was simple and efficient—clean lines, a full shower, nothing fussy.
There was WiFi, a television, even a washing machine—small comforts that somehow felt disproportionately meaningful when you’re living in a foreign country and trying to build a new version of yourself.
But what I remember most wasn’t the layout or the amenities. It was the feeling.
It was quiet. Residential. A step removed from the chaos of central Paris, yet close enough that the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and everything in between felt within reach.
It felt safe. Manageable. Mine—for however long I was there.
And in a city that can overwhelm you in the most beautiful ways, that little apartment became something essential: a place to exhale.
I should have started unpacking, but we were hungry. We mosied down to a picturesque square in Neiully-sur-Seine, the little village I was to quickly start calling home. We came across a wonderful little bistro called Pinzintu and had one of the best lunches we had ever had. I still remember the moment it arrived—golden, glistening, unapologetically simple. My very first meal in Paris, and it was roast chicken.
But not just any chicken.
This was poulet fermier rôti—deeply burnished skin, crackling at the edges, perfumed with wild herbs I couldn’t quite name at the time. Later, I would learn they were herbes du maquis—Corsica’s signature blend of thyme, rosemary, and something faintly floral and untamed.
And then came dessert.
Three delicate choux puffs, filled with cold vanilla ice cream, set in front of me like a quiet promise. Then the chocolate—warm, glossy, poured over the top until it melted into every crevice.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to interrupt the moment.
The contrast was everything:
warm and cold, soft and crisp, bitter and sweet. It was indulgent without apology, familiar yet somehow entirely new.
I had traveled all that way, and in that moment, sitting in a small bistro just outside the center of Paris, I realized something:
This wasn’t just dinner. This was the beginning!
The Sunday before school began, Doodle and I made our way to Anne and Thomas’s beautiful home for lunch in Saint-Germain-en-Laye—a village that felt as though it had been quietly waiting for me to arrive. It was exactly the life I had been reaching for: families, expats, and Parisians who had chosen space, light, and a softer rhythm over the intensity of the city.
Stepping into Saint-Germain felt like slipping into a more graceful version of France’s royal past. The town rests high above the Seine Valley, where the views stretch endlessly toward Paris, while an immense forest—once the playground of kings—still lingers at its edge. The old town curves and meanders in that perfectly imperfect way, its medieval streets opening into hushed courtyards that feel suspended in time.
And then there is the history—ever present, but never heavy. The grand Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye stands watch over it all, a quiet reminder that Louis XIV was born here in 1638, long before Versailles ever stole the spotlight.
But truthfully? The shopping nearly rivaled the history. The center of town hums with life—boutiques, pâtisseries, and specialty shops tucked one into the next, each more charming than the last. It felt less like shopping and more like wandering through a beautifully curated secret.
Somewhere between the morning walks, long, lingering lunches, and the gentle rhythm of the village, Anne and Thomas’s home—and Saint-Germain itself—became more than a destination. It became my refuge, my reset, my little corner of France that, for a time, felt entirely like home.
Anne wasn’t just a host—she was family. One of Doodle’s closest friends since preschool, she had been woven into my life for as long as I can remember. The Burnseds moved in next to my grandparents when I was two years old, and from that moment on, the line between friends and family simply disappeared.
And Anne… she entertains in that unmistakably French way. Effortless, elegant, never overdone. The table always feels beautiful but unpretentious, and somehow, without any visible fuss, she produces meals that are simple, thoughtful, and absolutely delicious—as if ease itself were an ingredient.
We were joined by their lovely children—Owen, Annabelle, and Arthur—for what they casually called a “cookout,” though it bore little resemblance to anything I would have called that back home. Gathered around a table in their beautiful garden, it felt effortlessly elegant—more like an intimate al fresco lunch than a backyard barbecue, where everything unfolded with ease and intention.
It was my first time meeting the children, and I had no idea then how completely I would fall for them over the next nine months. It was, in every sense, the perfect Sunday—an easy, joyful pause before stepping into my first day of school.
Recipe
Watching the waiter pour the chocolate sauce over the little magical puffs, was well, magical Choux pastry is one of those doughs that quietly does everything—it’s the backbone of some of the most iconic French desserts and a few savory showstoppers. Once you master it, you can spin it into eclairs, cream puffs, or gougères, to name a few. It is worth mastering.
Profiteroles with Chocolate Sauce
Choux Pastry (Pâte à Choux)
Servings 4
Ingredients
- 1 cup (240 ml) water
- ½ cup (115 g) unsalted butter
- 1 cup (125 g) all-purpose flour
- ¼ tsp salt
- 4 large eggs
Instructions
Preheat oven to 400°F (200°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
In a saucepan, bring water, butter, and salt to a boil.
Add flour all at once. Stir vigorously until it forms a ball and pulls away from the sides (about 1–2 minutes).
Remove from heat. Let cool slightly (2–3 minutes).
Add eggs one at a time, mixing fully between each until smooth and glossy.
Pipe or spoon small mounds (about 1–1.5 inches wide).
Bake 20–25 minutes until puffed and golden.
Turn off oven, crack the door, and let them dry out for 5–10 minutes (this keeps them crisp).
Cool completely.
Filling
Fill with either vanilla ice cream or crème pâtissière if you want a softer, more classic French pastry version
To assemble:
Slice or poke a hole and fill each puff with ice cream just before serving.
Chocolate Sauce (the best part!)
Ingredients
- 6 oz (170 g) dark chocolate (60–70%), chopped
- ¾ cup (180 ml) heavy cream
- 1 tbsp butter
- Pinch of salt
- Optional: 1 tsp vanilla or splash of espresso
Instructions
- Heat cream until just steaming (not boiling).
- Pour over chopped chocolate. Let sit for 1 minute.
- Stir until smooth.
- Add butter and salt; stir until glossy.
- Keep warm (it should be pourable, not thick).
Assembly
- Fill profiteroles with ice cream
- Stack or arrange in a bowl or plate
- Generously pour warm chocolate sauce over the top
Serve immediately.
Tips:
- Don’t open the oven early—steam is what makes them puff
- Use a good quality, slightly bitter chocolate—this is where most of the flavor lives
- Serve right away—the magic is in the hot/cold contrast
