If Only We'd Ordered the Fish

My unexpected Paris bingo card included food poisoning, a jewel heist, a lesson in real romance, and a helpful reminder about managing life's regrets

Bonjour Dearest Ones,

I began this newsletter a week ago, from the confines of my bed, the one place in which I’d been spending more time than the bathroom, and I’m happy to report that this correspondence finds me healthy again and deeply apologetic for my absence.

If you follow me over on the ‘gram, you might already be familiar with my tale of travel woes. A romantic long weekend in Paris went sideways when the animal gods staged some divine karma. As an on-again/off-again vegetarian, I found myself uncharacteristically seized by Parisian spirit one evening and made the immediately regrettable decision to order duck. Long story short? I was struck down with a week-long illness called Campylobacter, and the rest of the trip was spent hobbling between the bed and the bathroom, fighting a fever, and half-consciously absorbed in the newest season of Love is Blind.

Can I get a redo on the City of Love?

I am not unfamiliar with dashed travel expectations. During the years I was caregiving to my husband and both my parents, plans were made, canceled, and dashed more times than I can count. Those ups, downs, and shaken expectations taught me valuable lessons about non-attachment, what we call in the yoga world “aparigraha.” Given that none of us has 100% control of what happens in life, it’s a Yama (value) everyone would be wise to cultivate. Rolling with the punches, learning to stand back up, and move on is more than just good sense — it’s an evolutionary necessity.

Still, I found myself mourning the lost potential of our trip. At one point, I rolled over and tearfully asked TC, “Why didn’t I just order the fish?”

Some brains are prone to spiral with regret, and I’m embarrassed to admit I possess one such mind. I find it exceptionally difficult to let go of things lost, opportunities wasted, and bad financial transactions. Without an intentional practice of aparigraha, my mind would be a crockpot of woeful what-ifs. Kicking it out of regret mode can feel like spinning tires out of the mud. It truly is a practice.

While Paris was not the twinkling lights, fancy meals, and make-out seshes I’d expected, it did reground me in the Love You Hard definition of real romance. I don’t know what I would have done without the support of my partner. From his daily visits to the nearby pharmacy to his insistence that he stay with me through the fevers, resting his cool hand on my hot head, I felt myself surrender into utter vulnerability (not a natural state for me), and I did what I find so difficult in our day-to-day life: I let him take care of me. It was an unexpected moment of growth.