When I was twenty-two, I spent a summer in France, which sounds glamorous until you realize I was surviving mostly on baguettes and instant coffee. I’d just finished college, had no real plan, and thought being in Europe automatically made me “interesting.” I wore scarves wrong, said “merci” too often, and pretended to understand wine that tasted like vinegar. It was chaotic and wonderful.
And then there was him.
He appeared out of nowhere—like a walking cliché, really. Tousled hair, accent so smooth it could butter toast, and that charming half-smile that makes you forget how verbs work. He asked me a question in French that I didn’t fully understand, but I caught one word—“déjeuner.” Lunch. That, I could handle.
“Oui!” I said, with the confidence of someone who had no idea what she’d just agreed to.
Now, I was 22, in a foreign country, saying yes to a date with a Frenchman I’d just met, and I could practically hear my mom’s voice in my head: Natalie, please don’t get kidnapped. But something about being that young—and that free—makes you think you’re invincible.
The next afternoon, we met at this little café tucked between two cobblestone streets. I showed up in my best “I’m trying but pretending I’m not trying” outfit—white dress, sandals, probably some poorly applied eyeliner. He ordered something complicated that I pretended to understand, and I ordered a croissant because it was the only French word I could say without sweating.
We talked—or rather, tried to. His English was as broken as my French, so most of our conversation was a mix of gestures, smiles, and laughter that said, We’ll just figure this out. And somehow, we did.
At one point, he asked, “Voulez-vous promenade?” and I nodded, thinking promenade meant “dessert.” It didn’t. It meant walk. So there I was, waiting for crème brûlée, and instead, we’re walking along the river. He bought me a tiny bunch of flowers from a street vendor, and I remember thinking, This is the kind of thing that happens in movies.
And maybe it was. Not a grand love story, but one of those small, beautiful moments that stay with you. We didn’t have much in common. I don’t even remember his name now (something with a J, I think). But I remember how it felt—to be that open, that curious, that unafraid of what came next.
Sometimes, when I’m sitting in Miami traffic with two kids arguing in the back seat about who gets the last fruit snack, I think about that summer. About how simple it all was. No schedules, no expectations, no Google calendar alerts reminding me to pack lunches or sign permission slips. Just a girl saying yes to new things.
Now, I’m not about to run off to France again (though, Rex, if you’re reading this, I wouldn’t say no to Paris someday). But that version of me—the twenty-two-year-old who said “oui” without overthinking—is still in here somewhere. I catch glimpses of her when I try something new, when I laugh too loudly, or when I dance in the kitchen with Nico and Anthony to songs they don’t even know the words to.
It’s funny—at 22, I thought I had to travel halfway across the world to find adventure. But it turns out, life keeps handing it to you, just in different forms. It’s in the chaos of motherhood, in the rare quiet moments, in saying yes to things that scare you a little.
So no, I didn’t end up with the Frenchman (though he did teach me how to properly order coffee). But that trip taught me something better: to keep saying “voulez-vous” to life. To keep showing up, even when I don’t have the words right.
And maybe, sometimes, to still order the croissant.