There was a time I wanted to spend the rest of my life in France

Me in southern France

There was a time when I was pretty sure I was going to spend the rest of my life in France.

I was largely drawn there for personal reasons, but I also thought I liked life better over there.

My first year over there was sublime– definitely the most stimulating year of my life thus far. Every day was an adventure. What new words would I learn, what new foods would I try, what new people would I meet? What new fashions would I see, what new cities would I visit, what new philosophies would I encounter?

Friday nights I played bridge with elderly French women. Every day I biked several miles to and from my university past palm trees, fountains, and the smell of freshly made baguettes. My host mom made food I had never heard of, but that melted so deliciously in my mouth.

I went on dates, took salsa dancing lessons, and read poems by Paul Verlaine and Charles Baudelaire.

I remember my first time feeling truly comfortable speaking French. I was on a train home from meeting up with my good friend Michelle in Venice. I began speaking with a 40-something-year-old man sitting across from me about I don’t even know what.