Here in the United States, coffee is a necessity.
It’s an accessory.
It’s the fuel behind every hustle and the badge of every busybody.
We don’t sip it.
We chase it.
We order it before we leave the house, pick it up mid-call, and gulp it in the car before we even remember tasting it.
We want it fast, we want it big, and we want it now.

It’s not a love story.
It’s a one-night stand.

But then—I visited France.

And everything changed.

Because in France, coffee isn’t a sprint.
It’s a seduction.
They don’t want quantity. They want quality.
They don’t want a to-go cup. They want a moment.
No sizes, no sippy lids, no cardboard sleeves.
Just porcelain and presence.
They sit. They sip. They savor.

Coffee in France is held like a lover and nursed like a secret.
It’s not there to wake you up.
It’s there to remind you that you’re alive.

Meanwhile, back home, we’re out here running like it’s the Kentucky Derby of caffeine.
On your mark, get set, GULP.

And for anyone who clicked on this thinking I was about to spill some scandalous French secrets—
I hate to disappoint.
The only thing I fell for in France was a cup of coffee.

And for the curious souls still leaning in,
wondering if I might just have one of those stories
tucked behind the lace curtain—
well…
that just might be the next entry.

Today, the only thing I fell for in France was a cup of coffee.