10 days until I say goodbye to Paris

and goodbye to the gloomy final exam at Le Cordon Bleu too.

I will be flying from Paris to Boston in ten days.

During our five years in central Massachusetts, Doug and I grew to immensely love a group of friends that soon elevated the meaning of chosen family to us. They're supportive and immensely opinionated, like friends should be. We look forward to spending Christmas together this year.

Being mostly Brazilians, they can cheer up even the greyest of winters. Good laughs, lavish meals, and plentiful hugs are guaranteed whenever we're together. I could do with a bit of that right now, don't you think?

When I share these desires, most people say I shouldn’t be anticipating my leaving that much: "You will miss Paris!” to which I always respond with a Mona Lisa smile. I know I will — with all my heart. I miss Paris already!

One of those Parisian streets that look like they came from a movie set. Apologies for the shaken hands—it was really cold.

But I would be lying if I didn't tell you I'm also tired and longing for some comfort. Both physical and emotional. It's becoming colder and colder in this part of France and, surprising no one, it tends to rain every time I leave school to walk home for about 45 minutes.

I know the Parisian rain sounds poetic, especially at midnight, but I can assure you it's not when you've spent the whole day running in the kitchen like a headless chicken and being yelled at for over-reducing your sauce. Or not reducing it enough.

I know discomfort can be part of the process of growing. I must have read it somewhere. And in the kitchen, discomfort seems even more necessary because it makes you alert and constantly on your toes, which I've come to learn with the French, is an excellent quality of a chef.

Discomfort also makes you more thankful for the modest easement. Your warm car seat, seedless grapes, the delights of speaking your own language, or the satisfaction of checking under the sink to see your partner already took out the trash. Many wonders.

Ok, now. Come here. I want to invite you to picture Lady Justice holding the scale of impartiality, but let's say she now holds the scale of comfort. My ranks are pretty equally balanced between couldn't be more thankful x I've had enough. Like in a healthy long relationship, Paris and I might need some space from each other.

And, of course, so many things happened during this time that I didn’t have a chance to tell you yet, or just shallowly did (fear nothing, that's all I'm going to do once back home). But again, you get it: like in a long relationship, Paris and I have cultivated some secrets.

La terrine chaud de poison. Appetizing, non?

But, to be honest! I guess this melancholy is also potentialized by my mom leaving this last weekend. I came home at 9 pm after a long day of fish terrine failings to find my apartment as hollow as the inside of a well-baked cream puff. If I could, I would have asked the school to host me overnight.

And, of course, she left me the place impeccably clean. I love you, mom!

The feeling lasted more than I expected, now potentialized by an actual cold (and the cold weather). As if I were already walking on a path of daisies, my pair of thermal leggings ripped when I wore them in a hurry to class. I was left with pants that are only suitable for winter temperatures in Southern California.

Incredibly grumpy, during this very same weekend, I:

• binge-watched this show on Netflix;

• opened my recipe binder to study for my final exam only once because I couldn't deal with the massacring feeling of procrastinating any longer;

• didn't write a single word;

• and before shame hit me hard, I sharpened one of the ten knives I have to before the last practical test tomorrow, which offered me a strong sense of usefulness, see?

Would you think a bowl of store-bought granola & milk would look that sad?

After merely existing (but still very prolific in classes, you know cooking school is not for the faint of heart) for days in a row—walking with food from the kitchen to the living room, then walking with dishes from the living room to the kitchen—, I decided it was time to wash my hair and react.

So I did. And like an explorer, embarked on the metro 1, but first stopped at one of the nicest pastry shops in Paris for a warm and comforting cup of chocolat chaud with a new friend. The nicest pastry shop was packed, so we had to switch to a café across the street, which didn’t compromise our delightful rendez-vous and improved my mood astonishingly. She left with generous recommendations of where else to explore, and I spent the rest of the afternoon in the Marais.

I told you!

First stop was at Boulangerie Utopie, which is not in the Marais, but is close. They made me curious with their charcoal baguette & sourdough croissant — both unavailable at the time. I ordered a heavily caramelized chausson aux pommes and (I know you're going to laugh) a hot dog (chien chaud for the francophones) that tasted like, well, the best hot dog in the world. How do these French do it?! If you visit them, be ready for the long lines — they're tiktok famous. And order the hot dog too.

Can you smell it?

Grabbed a to-go coffee to fuel my lazy full-belly spirit and to warm my hands, and kept walking until commercial Rue de Rivoli. Dressed with my new pair of thermal leggings and excited by the caffeine pumping my brain, I decided to explore some more, still taking photos like a tourist, just holding my phone a little stronger this time.

A cute American couple approached me while I waited for the red light. “Oh my god, you're that woman from The Julia Child Challenge that no one knew how to pronounce the name!” Yes, I am. “Oh my god, you're the winner of The Julia Child Challenge!” Yes, I am. “Oh my god, you're in Paris now, and we met here!” Yes, we did. Where are you guys headed to, I asked. "Shakespeare and Co”. Can I join you?

I walked into the most beautiful bookstore in the world once again to feel mesmerized by the petit literary universe that this place is. Found this:

Then, in the foreword, I read this:

“Her [M.F.K.] newspaper experience taught her to write fast and not to be boring. To the end of her long writing career, she never rewrote or edited her own prose, according to her biographer Anne Zimmerman. But she only found her food voice—which is like no other—in ther late twenties. It was the result of France.”

I parted ways with the adorable couple and walked out of the bookstore, heading towards the metro station to close my eyes and wish I get struck by that same M.F.K. magic. It doesn’t hurt to hope, does it?

Kept walking inside another Parisian night as if I hadn’t been living in there for almost three months. My eyes sparkled, once again, with the architectural beauty, the enchanting chitchat on the streets, and the tempting smell of food being served that gently moves through the air around you. I don't know what kind of spell this city casts on us, but it always feels like it's a first time. I guess M.F.K. could feel that too.

The only thought in my mind is how much I will miss Paris. And how lucky I am to still be here, experiencing this. Discomfort, sometimes, is exactly what you need to see things through fresh eyes and to challenge yourself just a little further. You also need that be a great chef, don't forget!

Oh Paris, my old, old love, you still enchant me. Our relationship will be, indeed, very long.

I'm back later this week with final exam news. Wish me luck? Maybe some magic, too.

Merci,