Saying Goodbye to Strasbourg Again

I didn’t plan to write anything tonight, but this is what came out while wandering the streets and thinking about the end of another chapter here. It isn’t polished. It isn’t edited. It’s just honest.

I wish I didn’t have to leave Strasbourg again. This city has become a mirror, a teacher, and a kind of home. It has shown me who I am and who I am allowed to be. It taught me to be brave. It taught me to embrace alone time without fear. It helped me let go of the expectations society placed on me and lean into my passions without guilt. I arrived feeling uncertain and often alone. I now move through the city with a sense of belonging and acceptance that I didn’t know was possible.

Here I learned that presence is enough. That life doesn’t need to be chased or rushed. That uncertainty isn’t something to fear but something to live within. Strasbourg taught me to follow what calls me today and trust that it is enough. 

One of the strangest and most beautiful things is how often strangers stop me in the street. It rarely happens in France, yet it happens to me almost daily. People tell me I have a friendly face or a welcoming aura. I never heard things like that back home. It made me realize that it is okay to enjoy simply being alive. That giving every bit of myself to work is not what creates a meaningful life. Happiness comes from culture, connection, rhythm, and the quiet magic of everyday life. Here each step feels intentional. Each day feels like a beginning.

Strasbourg awakened parts of me I didn’t know were asleep. The emphasis on art and culture made me feel part of something bigger. I learned how much I love the slow life and how deeply I care about the earth. I learned that it is possible to live gently without being criticized for it. I discovered new hobbies and felt encouraged to try everything. I became less afraid of the world. I tried foods I would have refused five years ago. I learned how my choices shape the spaces around me.

This place taught me that the path I never walked is still there, waiting. It taught me how to integrate into a culture while still being the outsider, and how that outsider status can feel okay, even welcomed. It taught me the importance of communication and how powerful it can be. It taught me that mistakes are part of being human and that avoiding them only limits your life. It taught me the value of community, respect, presence, and the removal of distractions.

It may sound like a broken record every six months, but Strasbourg gave me the breath I was missing. Before, I felt suffocated. Here, I found room to breathe again.

Maybe the magic comes from its history as a free Roman city. Maybe it comes from its international character and its place in the European Union. Maybe it comes from its long struggle between two nations and its repeated loss of identity. Whatever the reason, this city has shaped me in a way no other place has. The lessons I’ve learned here feel singular. Irreplaceable.

As I reflect on my time here, I realize that my own duality mirrors the duality of this city. I want to be independent, yet part of something greater. I want freedom, yet community. I want movement, yet belonging. Here, those desires make sense. Here, they are encouraged.

There is a quiet magic in Strasbourg. A magic that helped me breathe, helped me soften, helped me come back to myself. I don’t know if I could have found it anywhere else. At least not like this.

Leaving never gets easier. But every time I go, I take more of this city with me. Thank you, Strasbourg, for the lessons, the people, the quiet moments, and the breath I didn’t know I needed.

 

Letters Along the Road

Four letters written from the road, to the voices that taught me how to live, question, and begin again.

To Montaigne,

I think you would understand this restlessness. You wrote to study yourself, to observe what it means to be human. I find myself doing the same, though I am less certain of what I am searching for. Perhaps it is not truth but tenderness, the willingness to sit with questions that never resolve. You said, “Que sais-je?” What do I know? Some days, not much at all. But in the act of asking, I feel alive.

Walking alone through Alsace, I often think of your tower and your essays written among books and silence. My silence is made of footsteps, of distant church bells, of the quiet between languages. You searched within to understand the world. I seem to search the world to understand myself. Perhaps it is the same thing.

To Camus,

I read you beneath a grey Alsatian sky, the vineyards stripped bare after harvest. You wrote that life is absurd, that we must imagine Sisyphus happy. I wonder if happiness is too big a word. Maybe it is enough simply to be awake. Some mornings I sit by the river and feel the absurdity you spoke of, this beautiful world that promises nothing. Yet I am still drawn to it, still wanting to praise it.

You found rebellion in living fully, even knowing that everything passes. I think of that often. I do not want to conquer meaning, only to honor the moment I am in. There is defiance in gentleness, in choosing to keep the heart open even when it hurts.

To Simone de Beauvoir,

You taught that freedom means nothing if it is not shared. I hold on to that. Guiding others through France, I watch them awaken to the world, to themselves, and I see how travel becomes a mirror for freedom. It reminds us that we belong not to one place but to one another.

You wrote with courage and clarity, but also with tenderness. I want to live that way. I want to be strong without closing, to love without losing myself. There is still so much I am unlearning.

To Simone Veil,

Yours is the voice that humbles me most. You carried dignity through horror and still chose life, compassion, and service. When I visited the memorials in Alsace, I thought of you. You never surrendered your faith in humanity, even when the world gave you every reason to.

I often wonder what courage really means. You showed that it can be quiet. It can mean simply continuing, holding onto decency when it would be easier to harden. I am still learning what that looks like in my own life.

And to all of you,

You have been companions on this long road. You remind me that meaning is not a destination but a practice, something shaped in how we live, love, and bear witness. I am still learning to be at peace with not knowing. Perhaps that is the truest beginning.

Travel keeps bringing me back to the same questions: how to live, how to love, how to remain soft in a world that is often unkind. These questions follow me from one place to another, yet they no longer demand answers. I have begun to see that meaning hides in the ordinary, in footsteps through damp leaves and the breath drawn before a new word in a foreign tongue. It is in the simple things, the weight of light on water, the scent of rain on old stone, that I remember why I chose to begin again.

Perhaps all I am meant to do is observe, the sky changing, the heart softening, the moment passing. The more I read you, the more I understand that the search for meaning is really the search for gentleness within ourselves, and that gentleness, once found, is what makes this life feel like home.

Metz: A Place I Almost Lived

Metz came into my life early, on my second trip to France, when everything still felt new and full of possibility. We drove there, curious to see a city that seemed to balance history with a youthful pulse. From the moment I arrived, I felt something familiar in it. Metz had the kind of energy that lives quietly between the old and the new. Its streets were alive with students from the art college, and there was a creative rhythm in the air that made me want to stay longer.

The cathedral was what captured me first. Its stained glass felt alive, each panel telling its own story in color and light. I remember standing there, completely still, trying to take in the scale of it. The city itself held that same duality, deeply rooted in history yet forward-looking, with both French and German influences woven into its walls.

Metz seemed like the perfect balance. Not too big, not too small. Close to nature, full of art, and connected to the world through its high speed trains and nearby borders. It was the kind of place where I thought I could be inspired, where the idea of staying didn’t feel impossible. Even now, the thought of the markets smelling of Mirabelle in late summer makes me smile. We all know how much I love Mirabelle.

I spent only one day there during that first visit, but I remember it for one reason more than any other: laughter. I had never laughed so hard in my life. It was just one afternoon, but it stayed with me. There was something about the people there, the lightness they carried, that made me think Metz could easily become home.

When I returned recently, this time for a few days, I saw a different side of the city. Beyond its heart, the countryside unfolded in warm autumn colors. I wandered through places that carried the weight of war history, and I began to see how Metz shares many qualities with Strasbourg — the mix of beauty and resilience, the deep sense of place, the pull between cultures.

If I ever left Strasbourg, I could see myself there. Metz still feels like a quiet possibility, a place that continues to wait patiently in my memory, glowing softly like stained glass when the sun hits it just right.

A chapter I never wrote, but still return to in thought.

French Festivals You’ve Never Heard Of (But Should Experience)

France is a land of celebrations. Some are world famous, like Bastille Day in Paris or the Cannes Film Festival. Yet the heart of French culture beats strongest in the smaller, regional festivals that rarely make it onto international travel itineraries. These gatherings reveal traditions that have shaped communities for centuries, and they invite you to witness France not as a tourist, but as a guest welcomed into the rhythm of local life.

Here are ten festivals across France that carry the spirit of authenticity, from village apple presses to medieval parades.

1. Trévières Apple Festival – Normandy

In the small town of Trévières, the apple harvest is celebrated each October with pressing demonstrations, cider tastings, and stalls filled with regional products. It is not a spectacle for tourists but a moment of community pride. This festival captures the essence of rural Normandy, where food, tradition, and gathering intertwine.

2. Festival Médiéval – Bouliac (Nouvelle-Aquitaine)

Bouliac’s medieval festival feels like stepping into a village from centuries past. Costumed locals, crafts, and market stalls recreate a scene that is intimate and immersive. Far from the polished tourist shows, it is a celebration that belongs to the town itself, where visitors are welcome but not the focus.

3. Fêtes de Jaufré Rudel – Blaye (Nouvelle-Aquitaine)

Blaye honors its troubadour prince, Jaufré Rudel, with medieval music, poetry, and pageantry. This is not a festival that draws crowds from across France, but rather one that belongs to the locals who keep the memory of their poet alive. It is literature, music, and history woven into the streets of a riverside town.

4. Transhumance Festivals – Jura Mountains (Franche-Comté)

Each spring and autumn, herds of cows decorated with bells and flowers are led through Jura villages as they move to and from their high pastures. These transhumance celebrations are as old as the mountains themselves, rooted in the cycles of land and life. They are not staged for visitors but arise naturally from rural tradition. For travelers seeking authenticity, few moments feel as timeless.

5. Fête du Comté – Poligny (Jura)

Poligny, the capital of Comté cheese, gathers producers, cheesemakers, and locals each September to celebrate this cornerstone of Jura gastronomy. While it is better known regionally, it has not yet turned into a crowded spectacle. Visitors will find themselves in the heart of a cheese-loving community proud to share their heritage.

6. Fête du Fromage – Savoie (Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes)

In Savoie, cheese is more than food, it is identity. The Fête du Fromage brings producers together for tastings, competitions, and markets. This one is known among French food enthusiasts and mountain travelers, so expect larger crowds than some of the other festivals on this list. Still, it remains rooted in its alpine traditions and offers a chance to connect directly with the culture of terroir.

7. Grand Pardon – Chaumont (Haute-Marne)

I had the privilege of experiencing this one myself. The Grand Pardon in Chaumont is a centuries-old Catholic procession that honors Saint John the Baptist. It is deeply spiritual, with processions winding through the streets and locals gathering in reverence. While little known to outsiders, it holds great meaning for the community. To witness it is to glimpse the soul of France’s living faith traditions.

8. Festival des Forêts – Compiègne (Hauts-de-France)

Music drifts through the forest in Compiègne each summer during the Festival des Forêts. Concerts take place among the trees, where classical and contemporary works meet the silence of nature. It is not a large festival, and it is better known within French cultural circles than among international travelers. For those who seek a blend of art, nature, and reflection, it offers something quietly profound.

9. Pfifferdaj – Ribeauvillé (Alsace)

The oldest medieval festival in Alsace, dating back to 1390, Pfifferdaj transforms Ribeauvillé into a living tableau of history. Thousands gather to see pipers, costumed performers, and parades. This one is well known across Alsace and draws significant crowds, but it remains tied to the region’s medieval heritage rather than commercial tourism. It is worth experiencing at least once for the way it connects modern Alsatians to their past.

10. Les Géants – Lille (Hauts-de-France)

Towering papier-mâché giants parade through the streets of Lille, a tradition recognized by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage. This festival is famous in northern France and increasingly recognized beyond, but it is still very much a celebration by and for the people of Lille. The giants tell stories of community, folklore, and memory, and to see them march is to feel the weight of history carried with joy.

France does not reveal itself only through its monuments or museums. It reveals itself in these festivals, where community, tradition, and joy gather in streets, fields, and forests. Some are tiny, known only to villagers, while others have grown into regional spectacles. Together they offer a map to the authentic heart of France.

For those who wish to travel deeply and meaningfully, following these festivals is a way to join in the living culture of a nation that celebrates not just its past, but its enduring spirit.

Fondremand: A Memory Sealed in Stone

I didn’t expect to remember Fondremand.

It was only meant to be the first stop, a small village on the way to somewhere bigger and more important. I was a student on my very first study abroad trip, groggy from the flight and too jet-lagged to hold much expectation. But the moment we arrived, something shifted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… old. The kind of old I had never touched before. The kind that sinks into the ground and doesn’t need to announce itself.

I had never seen a castle in person. Never stood near Roman ruins. Never walked through a place made entirely of stone, where centuries whispered from every wall. The houses, the lavoir, the way the water slipped quietly through the village—it felt like I was standing in a place that had been lived in for hundreds of years, maybe longer. I remember wondering who had passed through before me. What their lives were like. If they were tired too, and if the calmness of this place had wrapped around them the way it suddenly wrapped around me.

What surprised me most was how intact it all was. In the U.S., things rarely last. We build for function, not for memory. But in Fondremand, the buildings stood not only as relics, but as living parts of daily life. Doors still opened, chairs were still being set out for lunch, and the stone walls still held warmth from the sun. It was quiet, yes—but not abandoned. 

The village itself barely made a sound. Just the trickle of water moving through the creek, soft birdsong, the occasional thud of wooden shutters, and the scrape of a chair dragged onto a terrace as someone prepared the only café that seemed to exist. My feet brushed against loose stones as I walked, the sound grounding me even more than the view. No one rushed. No one filled the silence.

The colors were muted, almost shy, until you reached the grassy areas by the creek where green burst through the gray. Near the water, moss clung thick and slick along the base of the stone ramparts. I remember the sensation of age—not as decay, but as texture. As presence.

There isn’t a castle in Fondremand, not really. Not the kind with battlements and flags and fairy tale endings. But somehow, walking through the narrow lanes and overgrown stones, it felt like I had stepped inside ancient castle grounds. The kind of place where hooves once echoed in the courtyard and gossip slipped between the stones.

And maybe it was the jet lag, or just my overly caffeinated imagination, but I had this vivid moment where my mind wandered to Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I pictured the British on one side of the ramparts, the French on the other, shouting nonsense and launching cows over the wall. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud. It was absurd. And somehow perfect.

Because that’s what Fondremand did to me. It cracked me open. Gave me silence, yes, but also space to be fully there. To wonder. To daydream. To fall into history and absurdity all at once.

I hadn’t expected anything from Fondremand. I never knew it existed. In fact, I hadn’t even known we were going there. I was just along for the ride, following the flow of whatever came next. And maybe that’s why it hit me so deeply. I didn’t have time to brace for wonder. It just arrived, and I happened to be paying attention.

If Fondremand challenged me in any way, it was in what it did after. I went back home and looked at life differently. The rows of identical houses, the monotony of beige suburbs, the way everything in the States felt temporary or disposable—I noticed it all. And I mourned something I hadn’t even realized I’d found.

Because Fondremand had shown me something lasting. Something that had endured, not because of its fame or function, but because it had never stopped being real. It wasn’t preserved for tourists. It was simply lived in—weathered, mossy, crumbling, alive.

I never lived there. I never stayed the night. I didn’t even know the name of the woman who opened her shutters while I passed by. But something happened in that village. And for all its silence, it’s never stopped echoing in me.

Fondremand wasn’t a destination. It was a beginning.

A quiet corner of the world that cracked open my curiosity and offered me my first glimpse of time layered into place. I didn’t capture it in perfect photos. I didn’t even know to look for it. But it found me anyway, through stone and water and birdsong.

More than a decade later, I still carry Fondremand with me. It didn’t try to impress. There were no grand gestures, no curated charm. It simply offered what it had always been—still, weathered, and quietly alive. And maybe that’s why I’d bring people there now. Not to check something off a list, but to offer them that same deep breath of history, quiet, and wonder. A reminder that the moments that shape us don’t always ask permission. They arrive gently, almost unnoticed, and stay long after.

Besançon: The Quiet Flame That Almost Called Me Home

A love letter to a city that shaped my path, even though I didn’t stay.

In 2014, when I stepped into France for the first time. I didn’t know then that the country would one day become my second skin, but something stirred even then. And one of the first places to hold me in that early wonder was Besançon.

Tucked between green hills and quiet rivers, circled by a citadel that felt more like a guardian than a monument, Besançon wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. It had history in its bones, thoughtfulness in its air, and a pulse that felt steady, like it had nothing to prove.

I remember the streets, soft and worn with time, curving through the city like whispered invitations. There were festivals alive with color, cafés filled with students and locals, and layers of importance buried beneath the surface—Roman roots, watchmakers, revolutionaries. This wasn’t a town dressed up for tourists. It was a city living its own truth.

There was something deeply grounding about it. Maybe it was the presence of the mountains, watching from a distance. Or the embrace of the river Doubs, looping calmly around the heart of the town. I’ve always been drawn to places where water and land meet with quiet reverence, where nature and history wrap around each other like old friends. Besançon had that.

And yet… it didn’t become my home.

Later that same trip, I visited Alsace. Not Strasbourg yet, but the villages. And something flickered again. A different kind of magic. A different kind of story waiting.

When it came time to choose a home in France, I thought long and hard about Besançon. I nearly said yes. But Strasbourg offered something I couldn’t ignore, connection. To other countries, to the world. A rhythm that matched my work and my wanderlust. A place that still had rivers and mountains, but also an open door to everywhere else.

Still, I think of Besançon often. The way you think of a first love, not with regret, but with tenderness. It was the first place that showed me I could belong somewhere in France. That there was space for me here. And I carry that gift with me still.

Some cities give you a future.

Others give you the courage to imagine one.

Besançon was that kind of city.

Not Just Politics: The Quiet Grief of an American Abroad

A Seat at the Table: Bearing Witness at the European Parliament

I wasn’t expecting to feel so much.

It was supposed to be a simple afternoon—an exciting one, no doubt, but still, just a glimpse into the workings of the European Parliament. As someone with a background in political science and a life steeped in travel, being granted access to a live debate session felt like the kind of moment you note quietly in your memory, file under “professional wins,” and carry on.

But then I sat down and listened.

The session was focused on retaliatory tariffs against the United States. More specifically, in response to decisions made by a political figure I won’t name here—because, much like Voldemort, his name feels like a platform, and I’d rather not give him one.

And suddenly, it was no longer just an academic moment. It was personal. My heart rate quickened. My hands trembled slightly. I realized, in real time, that I was watching some of the world’s most influential voices debate the global fallout of my home country’s actions. It wasn’t hypothetical. It wasn’t distant. It was here, now, and deeply real.

The Weight of the Mirror 

It’s a strange thing to feel so disconnected from a place, and yet so affected by how it’s perceived. I’ve spent the past few years intentionally putting space between myself and the United States—not just physically, but emotionally, philosophically. I’ve done the inner work, questioned my allegiance, unpacked my privilege. I’ve learned to speak about the U.S. from a place of nuance, not nationalism.

But watching that debate, I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to hear my country laid bare in such stark terms. I agreed with the criticisms—I’ve voiced them myself countless times. But hearing them echoed in this grand chamber by people with the power to act on them… it was like watching your house catch fire, from outside the window, knowing your family is still inside.

The proposed measures made sense. Still, I wondered how they would ripple. How would they touch the people I love? How would they impact me, even if I’m only briefly returning? There was no clean answer. Only the heaviness of being caught between identities—branded by the place you came from, even when your heart has found home elsewhere.

A Global Reckoning

There was an eerie familiarity to it all. As the speakers raised their voices—not in anger, but in solemn urgency—I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching history repeat itself. A debate before the storm. An attempt to reason with rising authoritarianism. It felt like the kind of moment we read about decades later, wondering how people missed the signs. Only this time, I was in the room.

And I kept thinking about the duality that defines my life now. I live in a space between worlds: American by passport, global by practice. I’m always translating—language, culture, intention, implication. And in moments like this, the weight of that responsibility feels especially heavy.

What Will My Travelers Feel? 

Soon, I’ll be guiding students and travelers through these same halls. They’ll sit in these seats. They’ll look down at the same chamber floor where I watched the debate unfold. And I wonder—will they feel it?

Will they understand the privilege of being here, in this moment in time? Will they grasp the power of seeing themselves reflected in the eyes of the world—not through headlines or echo chambers, but through dialogue, diplomacy, and consequence?

I don’t want them to come here just to check a box. I want them to listen. To question. To let their perspectives stretch, even uncomfortably. Maybe they’ll leave changed. Maybe they’ll begin to understand what it means to be both of a place and beyond it.

Carrying the Echo

This experience has stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect. It reminded me why I left. But it also reminded me of what I carry. I’m not running from something—I’m running toward something. Toward understanding, connection, responsibility. Toward the hope that we can still shape the future by showing up fully, even when the path feels uncertain.

I left the parliament building that day without any answers. But with a renewed sense of why I do this work. Why I write. Why I guide. Why I believe in the power of bearing witness—even when it’s uncomfortable, especially then.

Because the truth is, silence writes its own story. And I’d rather speak—even if my voice shakes.

Laïcité: What It Is, What It Isn’t, and Why It Surprised Me

Being in France has taught me many things—how to slow down, how to savor a moment, how to pronounce rillettes without embarrassing myself—but one of the deeper cultural lessons I’m still wrapping my head around is laïcité.

At first glance, laïcité might seem like France’s version of the American separation of church and state. And sure, in theory, they’re cousins. But in practice, they couldn’t be more different.

In the U.S., we often talk about “freedom of religion”—the right to practice any faith, or none at all. But religion still lives loudly in public life. It's printed on our money, echoed in campaign speeches, woven into our court proceedings. In many places, it’s not unusual for prayer to open a school board meeting or for politicians to wear their faith like a badge.

France, on the other hand, leans more toward what you might call freedom from religion—at least in public life. That doesn’t mean you can’t believe. Quite the opposite. In France, you're completely free to follow any religion you choose—or to follow none at all. What’s different is that no religion can be imposed on you, especially in spaces run by the state. Public life is meant to be completely neutral—a space where everyone can show up as just a citizen, without any religious marker taking center stage.

It’s not anti-religion. It’s anti-imposition.

That distinction runs deep. In French public schools, for example, students and teachers are not allowed to wear visible religious symbols. It’s not just Muslim students who can’t wear a hijab. Christian students can’t wear a big cross. Jewish students can’t wear a yarmulke. The goal—at least in theory—is to protect the shared civic space from religious pressure, influence, or division. The public sphere, in this sense, is treated as a common good that must remain unmarked by belief.

This applies beyond schools, too. In France, when public officials take office, there’s no swearing in on a Bible—or on any religious text. It’s a civil ceremony, a civic commitment, not a religious one. The same goes for courtrooms. Witnesses are asked to swear to tell the truth, but not on a holy book. There’s no “so help me God” at the end of the oath. The idea is that justice, like governance, must remain secular—accessible and fair for everyone, regardless of belief.

And yet, France remains a deeply cultural place—and that includes religion. Many of the national holidays are rooted in the Catholic calendar: Christmas, Easter Monday, Ascension, All Saints’ Day. They’re observed nationwide, regardless of whether you’re practicing Catholicism, another religion, or none at all. The irony isn’t lost on anyone: the country that guards its secularism so fiercely still gives you time off for saints' days.

But maybe that’s just France in a nutshell—contradictory, layered, complex. A place where tradition and modernity constantly collide and rearrange themselves.

It’s also one of the reasons I find it so fascinating to live here.

France is home to the largest populations of both Jews and Muslims in Europe. And while laïcité aims to keep religion out of the public sphere, that hasn’t erased the deep cultural presence of these communities. For someone like me, who’s curious about the way belief shapes identity, history, and daily life, it’s actually created a beautiful space to explore. I’ve found myself learning more about Jewish traditions, listening to Muslim calls to prayer in certain neighborhoods, and having conversations with people who practice quietly, privately, but with profound conviction.

And here’s a small but memorable example of the culture clash I’ve felt: in the U.S., or even when traveling abroad with Americans, people will often bow their heads and pray aloud before a meal—at home, at restaurants, anywhere—without really checking if everyone at the table is comfortable with that. It’s assumed. Expected, even. I’ve always felt a little uneasy in those moments, as if someone else’s belief system is being draped over the entire table. But the first time that happened here in France—when a group of visiting Americans bowed their heads and prayed out loud at a restaurant—I nearly died of discomfort. Not just for myself, but for the people around us. For the waiter, who paused awkwardly. For the French diners, who visibly tensed. In that moment, I understood viscerally how different the relationship between religion and public space is here. It’s not about suppressing belief. It’s about protecting a shared social space where no one belief dominates or assumes itself as the default.

Another thing I’ve noticed: there’s no culture of evangelism here. No one approaches you on the street to ask if you’ve found salvation. No one strikes up casual conversation with the intent of steering it toward their religion. That kind of thing would be considered wildly inappropriate in France. It’s not because people aren’t spiritual—but because belief is seen as deeply personal, and no one has the right to impose theirs on someone else.

Coming from the U.S., where these encounters are almost normalized—especially in certain regions or subcultures—it’s honestly a relief. There’s a quiet respect here for each person’s internal world. You’re not expected to defend it, explain it, or share it. You’re just allowed to have it. Or not. And that permission, that privacy, creates space for curiosity. For growth. For personal, meaningful exploration that isn’t entangled in performance or persuasion.

I’ll admit, it took me a while to understand this approach. As someone raised in a culture that often celebrates pluralism by displaying it—where interfaith dialogue is on public display, and religion in politics is almost expected—France’s quiet, almost stoic neutrality felt strange at first. But it comes from a deep-rooted history: centuries of religious wars, monarchy-church entanglement, revolution, and eventually, a collective decision that peace required a clean line between faith and the Republic.

Laïcité isn’t always easy to apply. And it hasn’t always been applied fairly. But its intention, at least in its purest form, is equality. One rule for everyone. The state doesn’t care what god you worship, or if you worship at all. But when you step into a government space, a classroom, or a courtroom, you leave religion at the door—not because it’s shameful, but because it’s personal.

There’s something oddly freeing about that. Because in a place where belief isn’t constantly debated or politicized, you get to explore it on your own terms. Quietly. Freely.

Of course, neither the French nor the American approach is perfect. They both come with challenges. But living between these two worlds has made me realize that freedom can look very different depending on where you stand. And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe the most important thing is that we each remain free to question, to believe, to doubt, and to grow—and that no one gets to decide that path for us.

This Is How I Come Back To Life

In Bloom: A Quiet Return to Myself 

There are seasons that pass outside of us and seasons that unfold within us. This spring, I find myself living in both.

After a long, heavy winter—one not just of weather, but of weight—I’ve started to feel something stir. Not all at once, and not with fanfare. But softly. Slowly. As if the quiet corners of my soul have begun to stretch again. And oddly enough, it wasn’t some grand epiphany that brought me here. It was a series of small, beautiful things—moments I might’ve missed if I hadn’t slowed down enough to notice them.

Back in Strasbourg, I’ve begun walking with no real agenda. No itinerary, no expectation. Just presence. And in that space, beauty found me.

I saw it in the blooming trees lining empty streets, their petals falling like soft confetti in the wind. In the tulips erupting in vivid color at the park, where the sound of children’s laughter mixed with the rhythm of fountains splashing. I found it in the silence of a stork’s nest high above the tree line—a moment I’ve waited years to witness, and one that arrived not with a spotlight, but with patience.

And maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe some things come only when we’re ready to receive them. Maybe this is how life teaches us to listen again.

These days, my camera has become more than just a tool for documentation. It’s a way of learning to see again—really see. Not for the sake of content or productivity, but for the quiet whisper of truth that lives in overlooked things. A shadow across a canal. A splash of golden light at dusk. The first wisteria buds pressing out into the world as if unsure whether it’s safe to bloom. I know that feeling. I’ve lived it.

There’s something beautifully defiant about spring. It doesn’t ask permission to grow. It simply does. Whether anyone’s watching or not.

I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to move like that—gently, with intention, grounded in the small overlooked moments of each day. I haven’t written much, because truthfully, I haven’t had much to say. Not in the big, public way I’ve grown used to. But I’ve started to understand that it’s okay to pause. To go quiet. To let yourself lie dormant for a while. There’s wisdom in waiting. There’s healing in hibernation. 

And when you’re ready, the world will wait for you to bloom again.

This return to Strasbourg feels different than those before. Less like a reset, more like a re-rooting. I feel myself growing toward the light, even if I’m not yet sure what shape that will take. There’s comfort in not knowing. In learning to trust the process, the seasons, the self.

I share these photos not to impress, but to remember. These are the small anchors of joy that pulled me gently back toward myself. They remind me that life doesn’t always ask for big moves. Sometimes, it just asks you to show up—to notice. To soften. To begin again, in the quietest way possible.

Spring doesn’t arrive all at once. Neither do we.

As a final note…

I know the world feels heavy for many right now. It can feel strange—even selfish—to notice beauty while so much is unraveling. But I’ve come to believe that finding peace in small, quiet things isn’t a betrayal of the world’s suffering—it’s a way to survive it. A way to remember what’s worth protecting. If you’re in a season of uncertainty, grief, or exhaustion, I hope you still find something—however small—that allows your own buds to bloom. Even in a storm, we’re allowed to lean toward the light.

The Sea Still Speaks: Lessons from the Shores of Normandy

Normandy: A Landscape of Memory and Defiance

As a travel professional, I’ve stood in many places shaped by history—but few have arrested my spirit the way Normandy did. Walking along the wind-brushed shores and staring up at the cliffs at Pointe du Hoc, I wasn’t simply a visitor; I was a witness. A witness to what humanity is capable of—both in destruction and in the unwavering pursuit of freedom.

Standing in the craters left by artillery, large enough to swallow me whole, I felt the weight of sacrifice in my bones. I wasn’t there to reenact or romanticize. I was there to listen—to the silence, to the wind, to the faint echo of a generation that ran headfirst into death because they believed in something larger than themselves. The idea of freedom. The idea of shared humanity. The idea that evil can and must be stopped, even when it costs everything.

But this trip was more than reflection. It was resistance.

A Moment at the Cliffs

When I arrived at the cliffs where those soldiers had once climbed, I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard. I had seen the photos. I had read the history. But standing there—wind whipping at my coat, the sound of crashing waves below—it was like the ghosts themselves had gathered to remind me what courage looks like. Real courage. Not the kind that posts slogans online or argues in the safety of hindsight, but the kind that climbs a cliff under relentless fire, knowing full well it may be your last act on earth.

I sat there for an hour. I watched the sky, listened to the sea, and imagined the battle unfolding—men climbing, one after another, some falling before they ever reached the top, and the man behind them still climbing. What drives a person to do that? To face that level of horror and keep going?

I’ve always considered myself a pacifist. I’ve always leaned toward peace. But that day, something shifted in me. I realized that their sacrifice wasn’t about glorifying war—it was about choosing to stand for something when the world was falling apart. I began to ask myself: Would I be willing to give everything to protect the vulnerable? Would I climb the cliff for someone else’s freedom?

And then the bigger questions came. Do I really believe in freedom—not just for myself, but for others? Am I willing to stand for it when it’s not easy, when the cost is high? Do I stand against oppression only when it's far away, or do I hold my ground when it moves into my own neighborhood? 

There’s no longer room for apathy. To choose silence is to surrender. And surrender doesn’t guarantee safety—it simply delays the moment when the fire reaches your doorstep. The cliffs of Normandy reminded me that the torch of courage must be carried forward—not just for the memory of the past, but for the promise of the future.

Normandy is a sacred space, and yet, the world it helped build is under siege—not by bombs, but by apathy. By division. By the steady unraveling of the very values those soldiers died defending. As I moved from one site to the next—from Omaha Beach to the American Cemetery to the lesser-known corners where memory still clings like sea mist—I couldn’t shake a single question:

What have we done with their sacrifice?

Scattered across the land, British, American, Canadian, and French cemeteries tell a quiet story of alliance—a reminder that they fought and fell together beneath the banner of freedom.  It was internationalism in its purest form. No borders, no flags more important than the mission. And now, watching the United States turn its back on those long-standing partnerships—on the very unity that brought the world back from the brink—feels like a betrayal carved into history. I found myself mourning not just the past, but the future we’re letting slip away.

This wasn’t my first time facing grief through travel. But it may have been the first time I truly understood how a place can become defiance. Normandy, for all its calm and quiet, roared with a message: Remember. Resist.

I carry that with me now. In a world unraveling at the seams, where ideology divides neighbors and power is bartered in fear, I find myself returning to those cliffs. To the footsteps of those who knew they might not make it, but went anyway. And I ask myself: Am I doing enough with the freedom they died for? Am I holding the line—not with a weapon, but with courage, compassion, and clarity?

In my line of work, I often speak about meaningful travel. Normandy is not a destination to simply be “seen.” It’s a place that sees you. It holds a mirror to your values, your comfort, and your courage. And in doing so, it reminds us that we are still writing history—not with grand battles, but with everyday choices.

This is not just a travel story. This is a call to memory, to humanity, to action. We cannot forget what happened here. We cannot be silent while the world forgets itself. Not while the tide still reaches the shore that once ran red with the price of our privilege.