It’s not that kind of story: on moving to Paris from California

If you’ve spent any time reading memoirs about France, you might have noticed that these books tend to fall into one of the following categories:

• I quit/lost my job/boyfriend/wife and moved to Paris and fell in love.
• I quit/lost my job/boyfriend/wife and moved to Paris and learned to cook.
• I quit/lost my job/boyfriend/wife and moved to the French countryside and renovated a farmhouse.
• I met a Frenchman/Frenchwoman and moved to Paris and raised a child.

This is not that kind of story.

No one in my family quit a job. I’m still pretty hooked on the guy who caught my eye 24 years ago, and he is a Californian to the core. Having spent the past 19 years in the Bay Area, I’ve become a Californian too, although not the kind of Californian who grows her own herbs and knows her way around the Chez Panisse Cafe Cookbook. I don’t expect to suddenly become a great cook, or even a very passionate one. I am so not DIY, and I won’t be renovating anything. Which is good, because at the apartment we’re moving into, we aren’t allowed to so much as paint a wall.

We are not running from anything; there is nothing to escape. We love Northern California. We love our friends, we love being so close to my husband’s parents and siblings and large extended family, and to my sisters family. We love our neighborhood. We love our sweeping canyon views and the zen-like calm of our comfortable house, which is in many ways our dream home. We are not really seeking new adventures, although we embrace adventures as they present themselves. We are not trying to slow the pace of life; the pace of life in Paris will, in fact, have far more in common with the rat race we lived in New York City many years ago. We are not, in any way, seeking greener pastures. The canyon on which we live is, indeed, very green.

No, we are escaping nothing, and adventure is not exactly on our radar. We are creatures of habit. When we were younger, we traveled a lot. Now, we both travel overseas for work and we take a family vacation out of the country about once a year, so we still enjoy travel, but not with the same fervor we once did.

We have aged out of discomfort. Had aged out of discomfort, I should say. We are now diving headfirst right back into it.

So what kind of story is it? Is it a romance?

A comedy?

A farce?

A grand adventure story?

A story of mishaps and misadventures coupled with discoveries of both the culinary and artistic variety?

Is it a story about how someone who does not do big cities well suddenly becomes a lover of big cities?

Is it a story about language? About culture? About wine?

About escaping this particular place on earth at exactly the right moment?

About getting lost on the metro?

About new friends and new neighbors and a tiny kitchen overlooking a courtyard?

Is it about learning to speak in code when nothing one says is truly private?

Is it a story about traffic?

Is it a story about cheese?

(Probably oui to both traffic and cheese).

Is it a story about rain? (My husband says it rains every time he’s in Paris, which will be a nice change in weather, until we are soggy and cold and wishing for our dry California heat).

Is it a story about navigating French bureaucracy and discovering French beaches?

Is it a story about appliances (it is rumored that the washing machines and dishwashers in France require vast quantities of tenderness and patience)?

We do not know.

We will soon find out.

This post was excerpted from my Paris blog, The Reluctant Parisian.