CROISSANT TEARS

The idea of leaving Lyon didn't feel real—so surely it wasn't, right? I'd been in the city for four blissful weeks, and the thought of not being there anymore felt like a vague concept that I couldn't quite put my finger on. It felt like something that might happen to some other unfortunate soul, on some other day.

As an artist in need of a jolt of inspiration back in January of 2020, I'd applied for an Alexa Rose grant before the pandemic began, having no idea how much I would need it by the time I was able to use my funding. When I finally arrived in France—more than two years after submitting my application—it was as an easily-startled shell of my former self, shrunken from two years of pandemic life and, even more so, from the shock of losing my beloved world-traveling dad to the virus in October of 2021. It was March 2022 when I arrived in Lyon, and on my third day, I was stunned to notice I was subconsciously ceding the right of way to pigeons as they pecked along. The realization made me stop short on a street corner, reeling as I came face to face with just how small I'd come to feel over the past two years.

But French butter is a balm for the soul, and four weeks of life in Lyon had given me an undeniable glow inside and out. Daily croissants and near-daily trips to my favorite farmer's market, fat wedges of Comte and little cardboard purses of berries from the market, sunny patio lunches with perfect tiny espressos to punctuate each meal, and 20,000-step days spent exploring all over the city had transformed me into a whole new person. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who not only resembled a solo-traveling badass, but someone who was also Living Life with two capital Ls—someone who did things just for the joy of doing them, who loved dining alone and had even stopped bringing my book or phone to the table, feeling not an ounce of self-consciousness while sitting there just soaking it all in and awaiting a plate of some of the world's finest food. It had been four weeks of the good life in Lyon, and I wasn't ready to leave—which was fine, because leaving was happening to someone else, right?

Knowing deep down that this change would be coming, I'd tried to prepare myself as best I could. On my last full day in the city, I'd spent the day wandering around and thinking, "This is my last day in Lyon." I thought it while people- and dog-watching on a bench in the Place Sathonay, and I thought it while I popped into a pastry shop and bought a glossy passionfruit entremet just because I could. "Passionfruit entremets won't be available on every corner back home," I thought to myself as I ate it, and yet it still felt like leaving Lyon wasn't going to happen to me. I thought it while eating my last beautifully executed bistro dinner: a salade Lyonnaise with gorgeously caramelized pork belly lardons and a perfect poached egg, followed by quenelles de brochet, a traditional dish from Lyon featuring delicate flakes of fish baked in a crust with a bubbling cream sauce. I thought it twenty minutes later as I realized I was too saturated with cream sauce to move, and I thought it while sipping the glass of Chartreuse I had to order as a result. I even thought it as I finished packing--no small task, as I was determined to bring home two bottles of wine and a sizable wedge of cheese in addition to everything I'd packed for a month of traveling. (But--not a finite month, surely. Whose suitcase was that? Not mine.)

It was seven o'clock on my last morning—just two hours before I needed to haul all my stuff to the bus stop, and then to the train station, and then to Paris before my flight the next day. As I'd done every morning for the past four weeks, I began the walk up the hill to the Croix-Rousse, my favorite neighborhood in the city. It was a special morning, and not just because it was my last; it was a Friday, and that glorious fact meant that Partisan Boulanger was open.

It's difficult to put into words just how special Partisan Boulanger is. A small bakery tucked away in the Croix-Rousse, you'll know you're in the right place when you see a line forming outside a shop with a sign that simply says "P." (If you ever see a line outside a bakery in France, don't ask questions—just get in it immediately.) Partisan Boulanger is only open from Friday through Monday, and it operates on a cash-only basis; but once you've arrived in the right place on the right day, with cash in your pocket, you may as well be a queen. First-rate croissants, perfectly nutty kouign amann, impossibly flaky puff pastry roulades filled with swirls of chocolate, plus an endless array of other pastries and every shape of bread known to man—all these riches are available to you, laid out like the dreamiest buffet of gluten and butter you've ever seen.

I'd been going every single Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday since I discovered it, and on this last morning—which was still happening to someone else, right?—I couldn't help but order a croissant, a kouign amann, and a cute little briochette. I walked up to the cash register, and the nice young man I'd come to recognize behind the counter told me the total. I dug through my wallet for the right small bills and looked back up to hand them over. As I held out the bills, he handed me my bag of treasures—and it was as he was handing them over that it suddenly hit me, and the words "oh lord, here it comes" rang out silently between my ears, which were already growing hot. In slow motion, I gently took the bag, thanked him in small, wavering French, and barely made it out of the bakery before big, fat tears had started to roll down my face.

Holding my breath, I turned to the right, away from the long line of fellow pastry fanatics queued up for their daily fix, and shoved my oversized sunglasses onto my face. I put one foot in front of the other, trying desperately not to sob as I clutched my bag of pastries to my chest and walked slowly away from the bakery. My bakery! My favorite bakery in lovely Lyon, which I was actually leaving. Lyon had come to symbolize so many of life's best things for me—joy, adventure, pleasure, delight, living in the moment!—and, as I tried to make sense of crying over croissants, it occurred to me that this fantastic little bakery was the ultimate symbol of all of them. I'd been given such a glorious, life-changing gift: the chance to come to France on my own and remember who I am, as a person and as an artist, and redefine my life moving forward. It couldn't really be over, could it? And why did it have to be?

And there it is, the worst part of traveling: the fact that it ends. As travelers, we take leaps, venturing out into the unknown just for the joy of seeing what happens next. And when you love what you discover, leaving it behind is a heartbreak, especially if you've grown accustomed to it. I'd experienced it before; just after college, I'd taught English in Greece for ten months, and spent the plane ride home crying even harder than the baby seated a couple rows behind me. Though this voyage was ten times shorter, these four weeks still felt uniquely special. I'm not a mom, but I am married, and it's not every day that my incredibly patient and gracious good sport of a husband can hold down the fort of adulthood on his own for four weeks, paying the bills and walking the dog while I run away and text him pictures of pastries and wheels of cheese. I hadn't traveled solo since my early twenties, and for the first time in a decade, this time in Lyon was truly my time—and even taking into account my new determination to make space for more solo trips in the future, there would never be another March 2022 in Lyon. That's why I was snuffling as I walked away from it, trying to play it cool as I passed well-dressed elderly women with their market baskets, but ultimately failing to do much more than cry and barely hang on to my bag of pastries.

But as I started to wipe my tears away—not crocodile tears, but croissant tears, a new term I've just coined for the specific type of crying done by those who have to tear themselves away from France—my sadness began to mature into something more bittersweet. In that moment, mourning the loss of my life in Lyon felt like it would engulf me; but as the waves of it washed over my head, I was suddenly struck by a deep conviction that the only thing to do with this sadness was to let it evolve into determination to not leave this life behind. I felt increasingly overwhelmed with appreciation for this incredible experience, and a new, fierce commitment to not let my new life go began to take root. And as this feeling started to fill me up, a new set of words began to ring between my ears, and "oh lord, here it comes" became "okay—now it's up to you."

There are so many of the things I loved about my life in Lyon—outdoor markets, lovely city squares and parks, and specialty shops over supermarkets—that actually are accessible in my life back home; I just hadn't been in the habit of seeking them out. Sure, good wine will be more expensive, and I can't just walk in to my local fishmonger and start practicing my French with the poor, unsuspecting salmon seller behind the counter. But I can still go out to dinner alone when the mood strikes, and though my local farmer's market only happens once a week, you can bet all the fresh berries in it that I'll be there every Saturday. It won't be Partisan Boulanger, and I won't be able to walk there, but I can still make a trip down to my favorite local bakery and surprise my family with pastries for breakfast. I can commit to buying from specialty shops, and continue the good habit I built in Lyon of asking what's best that day, and what's in season, and what the expert behind the counter recommends. And though I almost never do it in my everyday life, I can go to a park. We get out of the habit of visiting them, but they're right there, waiting to refresh our senses with even just a little bit of green and quiet.

As travelers, our job is to be as open, observant, and curious as possible while visiting anywhere else in the world. And when the dreaded time to leave that place comes, we have a new job: to let our experiences change us in whatever ways happen naturally and feel right, as we continue to push forward in our ever-evolving lives. To be sure, it's a tricky line to navigate between learning from the new perspectives we encounter in a place and appropriating its culture, and being mindful about that line is a necessary part of the job as well. But if done right, a traveler can take on a little bit of the shine of each new place they visit without doing any harm to it, and this process is a huge part of the joy of traveling. I'm American, but I'm also a little bit Greece, a little bit Italy, and even a little bit Thailand—a little bit of all my favorite places I've visited that have struck a deep chord within me and opened my eyes to new ways of seeing the world. I never wanted to leave those places either, but how lucky am I to get to carry them with me moving forward?

I've been back home for about a week, and I had coffee with one of my best friends here in Boise the other day. She remarked on how happy I look, and how it seems like I'm glowing. "It's the butter," I said, "It makes you glisten." I was only half joking. Being a little bit Lyon is one of the best things that has ever happened to me—and I'm going to hang onto this glow until I can make it back for a fresh coat.

Cheers,

Kate