Replanting
I’m standing on my balcony in Paris in my pink pajamas, Ugg slippers, and gardening gloves, praying that no one on the street below can see me. I’m never properly dressed for gardening because I never plan to do it; I spiral into it. I step out simply to enjoy an unusually warm April morning, but then I notice a branch of ivy is looking quite dry and decide I’ll just give one window box a bit of water. But then, while I’m watering I notice that one geranium really does need a quick prune. Then one thing leads to another and before I know it, the gloves are on, hours have passed, and my entire balcony is covered in dried leaves, flower petals, and dirt.
The balcon filant was the selling point of this apartment when I found it; a balcony that stretches the entire length of the building, accessible from every room in the apartment. When I visited this place for the first time, I walked up and down it repeating ‘oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” It was unthinkable, that all of this could be mine for half the cost of the studios I was considering renting in Manhattan. I moved into my place in mid-April, four years ago, and the first thing I did was turn the balcon into a magical garden. My best friend here, Adrienne, happens to be a florist, so she arrived at my apartment one morning with her whole truck filled with my special order: various shades of pink geraniums, ivy, dahlias, jasmine, wrought iron plant stands, terracotta pots, even a lemon tree! Together we potted and planted for hours. It was the first time in my life that I had ever put down roots.
Adrienne was one of the first people that I met in Paris. I was six months into living here, and I had just returned from a solo road trip through Provence. It was a difficult, and very uncertain time for me. I had just returned to France after going back to the US during COVID. I was in the middle of trying to finalize my divorce, and my brother-in-law had just passed away after a ninety-day fight in the ICU. When I got the news that he was gone, I didn’t have anyone here that I could go to for comfort or consoling. I really needed someone who felt like family, and the realization that, for the first time in my life, I didn’t have anyone, was so terrifying it made me want to flee. So I got on the train and went south to Avignon, then rented a car and just drove. I had no agenda; just went wherever I wanted to each day and figured out where to stay each night. If I had to be alone, I needed to feel like I was in control of it.
I was gone for a week, and a few days after I got back to Paris, I went to a brocante in the 11th arrondissement with a friend, and her friend Adrienne, who she told me had been asking to meet me. This day and so many of its details are burned into my memory. It was my first experience at a brocante, a pop-up flea market. For a francophile, retrophile, history-loving woman in need of everything for her new, French life - it was my personal nirvana. I wandered from tent to tent with stars in my eyes, touching every object and imagining its fabulous, former life.
Adrienne caught up with us a few tents in. She wore a white sundress with ruffled sleeves, worn-in black, converse high-tops, and had her hair tied back in a perfectly messy knot. Despite her best efforts, a layer of Earth was under her long, unpainted fingernails and she wore several rings and necklaces. Within minutes of meeting her, I knew we would be friends. She spoke loud, “Franglais,” like I always had, and laughed even louder. She smiled big and marveled at little, seemingly silly things like I always did. She took up space and wasn’t afraid to, and had an undeniably, sunny, sparkly presence. She had been here five years already, and though she arrived with nothing but her suitcases and her cat she now navigated around with such confidence that she negotiated the price of the vintage belt I wanted from 50 euros to 30 in seconds - where I wouldn’t even dared ask the intimidating madame for a discount.
After the brocante she wanted to show me the flower shop she was in the process of buying - l’Arrosoir. I still get chills walking into it, five years and a thousand times later. But that first day, that first time, it took my breath away. “You get to work HERE,” I said, “This is your office?”
One of Paris’ oldest flower shops, it’s over one hundred years old, and rather than a shop that was built to sell plants, it looks like a building that was once some Parisian artist’s elaborate, colorful atelier but is now slowly being reclaimed by nature. What I thought would be a quick visit turned into a full photoshoot and tour.
As I learned her whole story and told her more of mine, we realized shared the same mindset, the same outlook, even the same birthday (almost)! Between our laughter, she suddenly got serious, looked me in the eyes, and asked sternly, “So are you going to stay here forever?”
“Uh, I hope so,” I replied, a bit caught off guard. “I mean, I want to…I’m writing my book here, and looking for an apartment. To stay here forever is my dream.”
“Are you sure,” she reconfirmed, seemingly evaluating the validity of my answer with her eyes? “Because I’ve had too many friends say they’re staying and then suddenly - up and leave, and I’m left alone!”
“No, I.. I’m starting my life over - here - and staying! That’s my plan!”
Okay good,” she said, still matter-of-fact, “because I’m buying the flower shop, and marrying Ben, and then maybe having a petit bébé, and staying here forever!”
When we eventually parted ways many hours and many spritzes later, I knew I just had met a soul mate friend. All friendships are special, but some people you meet in life you feel an inexplicable, instant connection to. There is certain comfort there, an ability to be exactly who you are and know that with that person - who you are is accepted, understood, and entirely, unconditionally loved, almost as if they were family. To find that kind of friend at any point in life is lucky, but to find it abroad takes on an even deeper meaning because when you move abroad, your friends are your family.