Like with most problems, Paris was the answer.

It was my mom’s idea that I go stay with my (sort-of) cousin Beatrice. Our dads are technically ex-stepbrothers, but I’m claiming her because not only is she my best friend, she’s easily my most favorite person on earth. Part of it is her exceptionally fantastic worldliness: she’s lived in five countries, and when you ask her how many languages she’s fluent in, she shrugs and says something impossibly cool like, Depends on what your definition of fluent is. She knows how to navigate the Métro, how to order café crème at tiny Parisian cafes, how to talk intimidating-looking bouncers into letting you into clubs, and how to pair ratty sneakers with rumpled dresses and still manage to look très chic. Even her name is glossy and beautiful-sounding, pronounced Bay-uh-treece, or Bay-uh, for short.

I, on the other hand, was an absolute disaster in Paris. I asked for ice in my soda and kept forgetting to say “Bonjour!” when I walked into shops. I got off on the wrong Métro stop at least once a day, and smiled at people for no good reason. One day while Bea was busy at an appointment, I showed up at the Louvre without a prior reservation (mon Dieu!).

What I’m trying to say is, I had never felt so out of place. And I loved every minute of it.

Ever since our final family dinner at the Chinese restaurant, I’d been stumbling around in a kind of stupor, wondering desperately if I’d ever feel like I fit in anywhere ever again. At my mom’s, I was one more detail to manage in her overly busy life. In my dad’s burgeoning new family, I was literally in the way.

But in Paris? I reveled in my displacement. I was a misfit on purpose. I showed up with no idea who I was, and the City of Lights said, No problem. We’ve been welcoming random American weirdos for decades now. Have you checked out the Quartier Latin? Pas de problème! I’ll give you directions.