"When life gives you lemons/proof of the endemic misunderstanding of economics, racism, sexism, and nihilism of one's society, make lemonade/feverishly binge watch a distracting fantasy." And so it came to pass that I finally watched Emily in Paris. It's just as preposterous as I had imagined, but man, it's nice to see some hot men in beautiful places and watch a relentless woman make it in a new town through force of will and a boatload of serendipity. It's in this vein of confectionery escapism that I now write to you, friends, hoping to provide a short break from quotidian and existential disappointments.
But I didn't watch Emily in Paris alone -- I was with my delightful friend Sam. Sam is my first visitor(!), connecting the seasonal world to my own new adventure living in France. She and I worked together a few summers ago in Alaska and bonded over long talks in the sauna, hiking and kayaking, and our increasing distaste for the multi-colored-exclamation-point-smattered-corporate-speak e-mails (and the in-person equivalent) that one boss saw fit to spam us with. But I digress; Sam arrived in France ready to indulge in generous amounts of dairy, seafood, dessert, and bicycling. We scoured the bakeries of La Rochelle for the best croissant, had a seaside cheese picnic, slathered our baguettes with butter, and cycled over the bridge and through the woods and beside the low cliffs that give way to oyster aquaculture and coastal marshland.
To best utilize our time exploring the city, Sam arranged a home-exchange apartment for us in the very center of La Rochelle. For a few days I was once again a city dweller in a chic neighborhood, tripping down the cobblestones and wending through colorful markets, flowing with the ebb and flood tides of people as the midday and evening crowds filled and emptied the charismatic streets.
