To say I was an unseasoned traveler was an understatement. In fact, this was only my third time out of Ireland. But I had always dreamed of traveling the world, and so when a model scout had come to Dublin three weeks previously and offered me a contract, I jumped at the chance. At the time, I was a first-year theater student, and modeled on the side for extra spending money. And now here I was, lost in the vast expanse of Charles de Gaulle airport, my excitement quickly turning to anxiety.

After circling the concourse multiple times, I approached an official-looking woman and asked for directions to the bus station. She rattled off instructions in French and eventually noticing my blank stare, briskly marched me to an exit. It took me forever to find the right bus, but somehow, an hour later, I found myself ringing the doorbell of the Ford Models agency.

My first month was much harder than I expected. The constant stream of rejection from castings started to wear me down. I got lost constantly. No one understood my halting, embarrassing attempts at speaking French. The beautiful apartment the agency had placed me in was owned and occupied by a rather creepy Portuguese man, who was far too eager to befriend his young tenants. I would sneak in at the end of a long day’s work, feet blistered, and try to make it into my room before he could insist I join him and his friends for dinner.

As usual, things never turn out quite the way we expect. One autumn morning, racked with homesickness, I strolled toward Les Halles and stood in the shadow of the St.-Eustache church. I turned, and a familiar name caught my eye: Quigley’s Point — an Irish pub! As the door swung open, a chorus of shouts and laughter enveloped me and lured me inside. My total immersion in French culture could start again tomorrow, but right now ordering a beer and a packet of crisps was just what I needed.

It was the voice that I first noticed. The thick Mayo brogue and quick laugh. He was standing to my right, and he had kind eyes and punky, bleached-blonde hair. He wasn’t the moody Pierre of my fantasies, but at least we could talk to each other. He had been living in Paris for four years and spoke fluent French, so there was that at least. He encouraged me to get away from my landlord, and soon I found my own place in the Marais with an Australian girl.