And just like that, another three weeks went by, and I missed not one, but three Thursday posts. It wasn’t for lack of motivation, at least in the beginning. When the French two-week-long “Toussaint” school holiday started, I even edited and published a post the night we arrived in New York, while my jet-lagged kids were leaving half-eaten sushi on their plate and falling asleep on the floor by the TV, fully clothed.
I had wild ambitions at the time, and sincerely thought I would be able to write two more posts by the end of the break. That’s because I did not know what the week ahead had in store for me. Or to be more accurate, I did know but chose not to think about it. Which is why I was genuinely surprised when my 5-year-old tugged at my comforter the next morning at 4:30 am, claiming he was fully awake and ready to play. Of course, I have done this trip countless times since I became a French expatriate mother fifteen years ago, and I know, intellectually, that the kids will be up at 4:30 am, ready to play. But I am still shocked, and upset, every single time, even though I am usually already awake and not planning anything ambitious on my end.
So, the kids were up early, very early, the day after we landed in New York. And sure, it was painful, but it wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was the rest of the day. When my husband had to go to work for work at around 8 am that morning, leaving me with four children to entertain all by myself in a city that used to be home but that we now visit as tourists. When I found myself all alone in our small, cramped, and wildly overpriced hotel room where no mother in her right mind would survive more than 25 minutes. Suffice it to say that on that fist day at 4:30 in the morning, when my boys decided that it would be the perfect time to rearrange the furniture and play a round of “the floor is lava”, I was seriously questioning the reasoning behind our decision to come back for Halloween this year.
There was, of course, a blueberry and flax Bob’s oatmeal cup waiting for me on the kitchenette countertop. Oatmeal is not a French thing at all and I miss it dearly, even in its quick, pre-packaged form purchased sleepily after a day on the plane. There was smooth almond butter, and fresh berries, and the boys’ delight when I pulled out the Honey Nut Cheerios they adored when we lived in New York - for some obscure reason they have decided that the French Miel Pop’s counterpart was thoroughly inedible and will not so much as touch one of the honey-coated cereal balls, despite the acceptable B “nutri-score” grade proudly displayed on the package (Frosties get a D in case you’re interested, but of course they like it better). There was also the acceptable hot coffee I made from the cheap hotel drip machine, as it was too early for Starbucks, even in the city that never sleeps. So, one could say that our first breakfast, despite happening at five in the morning while it was still pitch black outside, was almost homey and comforting given the circumstances.
The trouble was what to do at 5:30 am when breakfast had been consumed and the rest of the day – the rest of the week – lay ahead of us, devoid of any specific daytime plans. Two days before, our dear New York friends who now live in Spain had cancelled their trip to the city after their son got appendicitis, so the reunion that was supposed to structure our week, was gone. I was suddenly left with a blank page, a working husband, and four children to occupy. Sure, I had many other friends in the city, and so did the kids. But school was in session in New York, unlike in France and Spain. So whatever playdates I would manage to schedule would not happen until 3:30 pm. And as any parent of young children will know, or any new mother dying for her partner to come home the minute he or she has left for work after the baby was born, the time stretching between 5:30 am and 3:30 pm can feel like the human, pagan, not-so-fun version of eternity. And so, it did, even in the greatest city in the world at the best time of year.
From the very first minute, I felt a combination of exhaustion and boredom, soon made worse by an unwelcome cold that kept my head buzzing for days. Sure, my 15-year quickly got organized to see his friends at lunch time and school dismissal. And after complaining for weeks about his mood and the challenges of living with a boy turned full-on teenager, I could have kissed the ground on which he walked. I now only had three kids to think about. But my 12-year-old daughter turned out to be quite moody and unpredictable herself, declaring one day that New York was the best city on earth, and the next, that her former friends were “toxic” and that she was dying to fly back to Paris. The truth is, we were all more than a bit confused. And whatever strong feelings she was trying to shield by burying herself in her phone or her book, I experienced as a wild seesaw between falling in love with New York all over again – this light! this October foliage! Central Park! It’s large, fun, truly kid-friendly playgrounds! – and finding myself quite anxious over the over-stimulating visions and sounds, the ever-present smell of pot and the shocking price of every single thing we ate. I was back home, and I wasn’t. And the Paris I found small-minded and austere only a few days before, suddenly felt like a comforting nest I was dying to burrow myself into.
In the midst of all those conflicting emotions, I was still exhausted and bored, and I still had to fill our days. Which resorted in extreme measures such as booking a trip to the Statue of Liberty, which we had never done when we lived there, the same way we have yet to make it to the top of the Eiffel Tower. We spent many, many hours in various Central Park playgrounds, which flooded me with memories of course, but mostly of the mixed feelings I experienced there as a new mother over the years - grateful that these places existed, and resentful that I had to be there so, so much. And as if hours spent watching my boys go up and down the same metallic spiderweb structure wasn’t enough, I also found myself watching the Paw Patrol movie in a deserted theater on a Monday morning. Thank God for the giant buckets of popcorn and no less giant cups of Icee, which were excellent bribes for my less-than-enthusiastic daughter. Her big brother was dispatched to a different screening room with his own giant containers to watch Five Nights at Freddie’s all by himself – it was Halloween, after all, or so I told myself in a silly attempt to dull the misery of it all.
Suffice it to say, visiting my former home in those conditions was NOT the most fun I ever had, and almost as excruciating as being alone with my children in deserted Paris this August. Sure, we had booked a place in Connecticut for the weekend in order to get some air, more space and a cheaper abode for a couple of nights. But Saturday morning ended up being spent driving our son to his friends’ house two hours away, and I was so frazzled at that point that I thought I would never be able to enjoy these two days of family time, with, finally, a fully functional parenting partner. I wanted less family, not more. I wanted everyone to go back to school, and to be alone in my empty apartment with my computer. I wanted to read. I wanted to SLEEP. I wanted to be in one place and not be confused as to where I truly belonged, wondering if my children wouldn’t be happier in New York after all, while at the same time feeling that I was over New York and that even the Fall foliage I so wanted to see, left me indifferent and burned out on “vacation”.
But then, there was the Pumpkin Crème Brûlée Donut from Arethusa Farms. On Sunday morning, we got up early and drove to Arethusa’s take-out place, where we would always grab lunch on that Christmas of 2020 we spent near Litchfield. It was my daughter’s idea and after driving me to the edge of madness the entire week, she ended up salvaging my vacation. The minute we pulled into the parking space, I felt better already, loving America all over again. I’m not sure why but slamming the car door with my sturdy rain boots and cozy fleece jacket and walking to the take-out counter, filled me with sudden, deep, and unadulterated joy. I guess it is something I never do in Paris, and I didn’t realize how much missed it until that moment. It was like a sudden flashback to those weeks we spent in Vermont during the pandemic lockdown, constantly getting in and out of our S.U.V, getting food from random, and delicious, country delis such as JJ Hapgood in Peru, or Brattleboro’s Vermont Country Deli. Getting out of the car in the cold and rushing inside to go wait in line in a warm, bustling place filled with coffee and cinnamon scents. It all rushed back to me before we even sat down.
And then, came the donut. A simple pumpkin crème brûlée donut in its plain white paper bag. It was my husband’s order, and boy was he ever inspired. I stuck to my Fall spice cappuccino with a bagel, as I was never a huge fan of pumpkin-flavored pastries, but this time I was wrong. One bite of the filling warmed me with all the autumn sensations I had come here to feel, and failed to experience up to that point. After a week spent wondering how New York had been so dear to me for so long, everything made sense again. Even if only for a few moments, I was finally home. Will I ever be back? Will I ever live there again? I cannot say right now, and only time will tell. But in that instant it was everything my heart desired.
I do not have a recipe for this donut, nor did I have time to look for one and bake since we’ve been back. I fear a crème-brûlée-filled anything would be too much of an undertaking for me at the moment. But of course, go ahead and bake crème-brulée-filled donuts to your heart’s content if that is what you need. The Internet is full of options, and you can report back. In the meantime, I will think about how to preserve this perfect New England Fall day and keep it alive through our delayed Thanksgiving dinner next Friday. I know I will miss America dearly by then, and the big family gatherings we used to have, in New York or in Connecticut, depending on the year. The weather in Paris will probably be rainy, and quite dreary, and I will need this shot of pumpkin spice happiness to get me through the day.
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