Hello dear friends,
I have some big news. After moving to London earlier this year to join my husband, we have moved once again. This time to Paris!!
It has been nearly two months. And I kept the news to myself because I wanted to live the experience whole-heartedly – not thinking about pictures to share or videos or blogs to make. I wanted it just for me.
This move wasn’t easy.
Somehow when I moved to London from Los Angeles a few months after our wedding it was an incredibly smooth transition. I had already spent quite some time in London – visiting the sights around town and also getting to know our neighborhood, meeting local characters, choosing my favorite cafes, shops and walks. Moving there felt like jumping on a plane to a familiar home away from home. I already had the basics set up too such as my local phone number, my bank account, etc. And of course, everyone speaks English there!
As the days ticked by toward our move to Paris, I started to get anxious.
I once lived in Paris during a semester abroad in college. I lived with a French family in the 13th Arrondissment and cherished every moment in this stunning city with the optimism and carefree spirit of the 22-year-old that I was. I took French classes at La Sorbonne. I cherished my art history course for which weekly field trips took us to the Louvre and the Musee D’Orsay to study the originals up close. But this time is quite different.
Ten years and 4 months after my return to the US from that semester abroad, here I was packing my bags from just across the English Channel to live in Paris once again.
I felt on a precipice after which everything was going to change. My husband and I were stepping into an entirely new chapter in our love story and in our lives.
I feared not being able to handle the language change, drowning in paperwork (of which there is SO much for every little thing in France), and finding it challenging to find my way professionally. And although there was less in the news by way of scary events in France – it did sometimes feel like I was making a decision to move to a country most affected by terrorism in Europe at this time.
Four days before the move I got really sick. I barely had the energy to get out of bed. And my husband was left to do all the final packing up largely on his own. On top of being sick, I was emotional – I didn’t want to leave London, a city that finally did feel like home. If you’ve read one of my earlier posts about finding home you’ll know why it was so important for me to finally find a place that felt like a fit. I didn’t want to leave this chapter behind – in our sweet little apartment with a view out onto a park and a canal in North London. (Video coming soon)
The morning we finally made our way to Kings Cross with all our bags I felt numb. It all seemed surreal – too much to process. I started to imagine we were just going on a trip, and that this wasn’t what felt like the biggest move of my life.
We passed through security and then passport check to get on the Eurostar. The French border control official didn’t say a word to me as she flipped open my passport. As she stamped my passport, there was a flutter in my stomach.
Then we boarded, found our seats and waited for the train to start to move. I still was feeling sick, I nodded off, and before I knew it we had already sped through the Channel Tunnel and were on French soil. That was it. Our English chapter was over. And our French one had begun. I squeezed my husband’s hand with excitement, trying to ignore the sad lump in my throat.