New year, new you, maybe even new me, but you can bet your weekly edition of Love on Lancaster is here to stay. Some things should never change. After a hiatus abroad in none other than the beautiful city of Paris, I have returned. Yes, I am now obnoxiously European and unable to let go of my previous life, but I am back. I figure for the first edition of 2026, we have no other choice than to go right to the source. The City of Love.
What could be more fitting for a love columnist than a semester spent in Paris? While I spent the majority of my time eating my body weight in cheese and bread, biking along the Seine and drastically changing my entire closet to black, I too spent some time learning the language of Paris. Love. The French, however, do things very differently. After four months spent traversing the city and doing my best to communicate in broken French, I learned a thing or two about my temporary neighbors. Alors, on commence?
Food is love
If I learned absolutely anything from my time in France, it is that food is the ultimate language of love. I didn’t need fantastic French language skills to clearly understand this principle. Quite literally, everything was about food. Every Saturday morning, my neighborhood was flooded with marketgoers, their bags overflowing with leeks, carrots and loaves of bread. The first thing I did when making French acquaintances was shamelessly ask them for their restaurant recommendations, aching to be a part of the magic. One of my largest notes on food pertained to the subject of lunch. After a summer spent on Capitol Hill, I grew accustomed to shoveling my hastily packed sandwich into my mouth at my corner desk. This was lunch. This was my break. Au contrare. The French take lunch seriously. From the hours of 11:30 a.m. – 3 p.m., stores shut down and restaurants open. Bistros are full of colleagues chatting, students gossiping and couples meeting to share a meal. Not only is food celebrated, sacred and something to take pride in, but it is also an experience that is meant to be shared with those we love.
The myth of school buses
The French don’t believe school buses are real. On multiple occasions, I was asked if the bright yellow shuttles even existed outside of the movies. The source of this confusion: the idea that parents wouldn’t be taking their kids to and from school. I spent my semester in the 13th arrondissement of Paris. On the outskirts of the city, the 13th was full of working parents with small children, looking to still be in the city but further removed from the craziness. While I was initially saddened to not be placed in the quintessential areas of the city, I learned so much in my tiny pocket of Paris.
Every morning on my walk to school, I was surrounded by Parisian parents, one hand holding their kid’s, the other wheeling a bicycle alongside them. The streets were filled with the sounds of childish laughter and French chatter. Walking your child to school is built into the DNA of French parenthood. It is an act of service for your child that the French can’t fathom that American parents don’t perform dutifully every morning. It is just something you do. It is just how you love.
Put your best foot(heel) forward
Dressing well is not optional. Putting on a well-thought-out outfit and a pair of heels is the biggest form of French self-care. This column, as you know, deals with more than just romantic relationships. Love for yourself is essential to the French way. I learned that presentation is less about the outward gratification and more about the inward love for oneself. As my four months went on, the more I invested in the ordeal of presentation, the more confidence and poise I exhibited in the world around me.
Learn from the French. Look good, feel good, play good.
I learned too much in my glorious time abroad to recount it in one measly article. For now, I hope my international wisdom will be translatable to our little lives here in Philadelphia. Love is universal, but love is cultural too. These are my notes on the French way.
With love,
Maggie
