It's All French to Me. Les Billets Modifiables... Part 4

Maiana Rose

9 hours ago

5 min read

There are a few notable ways to age backwards: Botox, biohacking… and dance parties until 5 a.m. for three nights in a row with your twenty-something new gay husbands on a group trip to Saint-Marguerite-sur-Mer.

A fourth night was not on the cards. But Knight of Wands, Three of Swords, and The Devil reversed were. We took the last train back to Paris late Sunday evening. Sleep deprivation aside, the trip to the countryside was exactly the reset I needed. Dating can be exhausting. Friends are always the refuel. But I recharge the most in my alone time.

It felt good to be back home in Paris, although the definition of home was about to shift yet again. Fortunately, the next stop was the South of France. I'd already extended my stay. I only book flexible tickets now. I'll always pay more if it means preserving the ability to change my mind. Things can unfold that way, organically. Of course, I wanted to stretch my time as long as possible.

Just not so long that it stretched me too thin. It was hot again in Paris.The heat didn't motivate me to w rite. So I didn't open my computer.

Une Dernière Semaine

The last week left almost no room for downtime. The more immersed I became in daily life, the more I forgot to be a tourist. I still had places I wanted to see. Monets to stare at. A fabric-covered bridge to cross. A reminder not to let the city become familiar…too quickly. One last moment with DPB (Dog Park Boy).

Dinner and a night out with friends. One last chance he'd ask for another date. One text left en vu. An overwhelming number of possibilities left unexplored. Yet I just couldn't bring myself to go on a piña colada hunt with a French dentist. He'd offered to pick me up on his motorcycle. But I was maxed out.

Besides, what was a piña colada hunt actually going to answer? I had to embrace a moment of quiet. Retreat. Recenter. Remember what I'd actually come here to do. That's the thing about full immersion. About being completely present. There's always a tendency to feel a sense of lack as things wind down.

But really, I think it's avoiding the endings. An unwillingness to face the reality that this isn't forever. I'd have to stay comfortable with change. Return to a place where I could start building a container for my life. Focus on my future. It's hard to stay emotionally open while physically packing up to leave. I've noticed I tend to forget how important structure is when I let myself stay open for too long.

It takes intention to pull everything back together again. To place everything back into the literal and metaphorical suitcase. Sometimes the right thing to do is leave room for things to remain unfinished. Not say more. Not make more out of a moment than it was. Personally, I think you should always leave at least one thing unresolved. It builds patience. Restraint. The ability to sit with your own emotions instead of immediately asking someone else to hold them.

Le Départ

Move-out day felt like a marathon. Vacuuming what felt like an endless supply of Roo's corgi hair from the apartment. Packing a month of Paris back into suitcases that somehow seemed smaller than when I arrived. Leaving a place where so much life happened always feels strange. Roo and I checked into a tiny boutique hotel on Place des Vosges, right by the dog café she loves because it has a kiddie pool and dog ice cream. Just my luck, the elevator was broken. Our room was on the top floor. Seven flights of steep stairs.

No air conditioning. An incredible panoramic view of Paris. I wanted to cry from exhaustion. In moments like these, I hate being single. I want someone reliable. Someone who makes my mistakes feel less consequential. Someone who finds the hotel with air conditioning and a working elevator. Who has stronger arms than I do to carry a suitcase up seven flights of stairs.

Fête de la Musique

I accepted an invitation to join him for an event where his friend was DJing. He was back in the city after a month of travel, and it was the beginning of Fête de la Musique, the 24-hour music festival that takes over Paris. It felt like the perfect full-circle ending.

After the set, we wandered along the Seine, the lights glistening across the water. He had an uncanny ability to create moments I couldn't help but turn into words. He told me he might be a cliché. The stereotype of a French artist. I laughed. Because I might also be a cliché at this point. An American in Paris, writing about love.

I felt obliged to tell him he'd inspired my first piece. It's potentially fraught to write about someone you're still in contact with. I wasn't sure how he'd feel about that. He walked me all the way back to my hotel. It was already 3 a.m. He asked what I'd been up to while he was away. I had to be honest.

It felt like I'd built an entire life here in a month and a half. A large group of friends. A social life.

Even if it wasn't entirely consistent or aligned with some long-term plan, the connections were real. That doesn't happen everywhere. Perhaps people are simply less guarded here. Maybe the possibility of rejection doesn't haunt every interaction the way it seems to back home. Sure, I'd found a way to care enough to create feelings I'd eventually have to sort through. Collected a new wardrobe. And done exactly what I'd come here to do. Write. I'd even learned enough French to order at restaurants, ask for directions, and stumble my way through a conversation.

He asked whether any of the connections had been more meaningful than the others. I suspected he hoped I'd say ours. Otherwise, why ask? The truth is, of course, they aren't all equal. But I'm in no position to calibrate. Not yet. Only time and life can. So I sidestepped the question.

"I'm still processing what it all means," I told him. "But I have appreciation for each one, including ours."

He may not have liked my answer. But it was honest. We fell asleep listening to the dog healing frequencies playlist on Spotify that I play for Roo every night.

La Fête Continue

A city taken over by rhythm. The funny thing about relationships is that each has its own rhythm.

Their own pacing. It's impossible to compare them. Like genres of music. Or tempos.

I've found it's best to let them play and see what the song naturally wants to become. It seemed like a strange choice to leave Paris during Fête de la Musique. But I needed a change of tempo.

And I was ready for the next beat. The Mediterranean was waiting.

About the Series

It's All French to Me is an ongoing narrative series by Maiana Rose, an American author, illustrator, and cultural commentator. Through diary-style essays, she documents the realities of modern dating in the city from an American perspective, blending personal experience with cultural observation. As the series unfolds, Maiana explores how romance, identity, place, and emotional connection shift across cultures, one encounter at a time.