Dear Paris,

It’s hard to believe that only a year ago we arrived in your beautiful city. Fall was in the air, and the leaves had already started to turn a beautiful golden bronze. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the streets, and somewhere, a saxophone played. I recognized the tune—La Vie en Rose, of course.

We wandered without purpose, following the leaves as they scattered along the Seine. It felt as if the whole city was waiting for fall’s arrival—a new season, a time for reflection, and best of all, comfort food.

Typical autumn days: cool mornings that trick you into wearing layers, only for the afternoon sun to return and make you question that big sweater. Seriously—I should know better. Summer still lingered, unwilling to let go, and the city felt caught between a chilled rosé and its first glass of Bordeaux.

We stayed a little longer on café terraces, soaking up the last of the sunshine before it disappeared for good. The air smelled clean—crisp even—and the city’s pace had slowed just enough to notice it.

Thanksgiving

We celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving in Paris, joined by family visiting from home. Instead of the traditional turkey, we purchased a delicious roast chicken from the Bastille Market—my favourite place in the city to shop for food. Everything there always looks so fresh, so impossibly tempting, that even a simple meal feels special. We kept things uncomplicated, and somehow it all came together perfectly. When we finally sat down, we raised our glasses—red wine, of course—and gave thanks, not just for home, but for how far we’d come from it, and for the strange, wonderful feeling of belonging in two places at once.

Now, a year later

I’m home again, in Vancouver, where fall feels different—more rain, less romance. But there’s comfort in the familiar: the sound of rain against the window, clouds hanging low over the mountains, the buzz of our version of a café—a coffee shop, really—on a grey afternoon. It’s not Paris, but maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Thanksgiving is this weekend—no Bastille Market roast chicken this time, but there will be pumpkin pie, another favourite. Still, it feels just as meaningful. There’s something about this season that insists on gratitude, even in its quietest moments. Paris left its mark on me—gratitude, curiosity, a slower way of seeing—and somehow, those pieces have followed me home, shaping how I move through the familiar.

And when the rain starts—because, let’s be honest, it’s probably going to rain for the next six months—I’m reminded that fall follows us everywhere, though perhaps a little wetter in Vancouver. Maybe that’s Paris’s gift: the quiet ability to make us notice beauty in the ordinary, to see it linger long after we’ve left.

Happy Thanksgiving!