Seven months ago I moved to Paris. It happened seamlessly; husband’s dream job offer was more than too good to turn down, our four bedroom Victorian terrace house was rented immediately, it was the beginning of a new school year for the kids, a fresh start for everyone in September. It just made sense.
For me it was more of a ‘frozen’ start than a ‘fresh’ one, and it was going to take a long time to defrost. I was frozen with fear, worry and anxiety; how would the children adjust, how will I cope with the language barrier, how dangerous is city life, these were just a few of my hundreds of thoughts. Confident me was shouting, ‘embrace change, embrace all that is French!!' Pathetic me was physically sick with worry.
These worries were however, laced with a little bit of dreamy excitement for my French adventure. Of course I laughed with my girlfriends over how we envisioned I would spend my days, gazing at gorgeous French men over café crèmes, numerous visits to Musee D’Orsay viewing impressionist exhibitions, strolls down Champs Elysee and through Jardin du Luxembourg, buying fresh fruit and vegetables at the charming French markets on every streetcorner…little did I know what really lay ahead.
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When one is taken away from structure or form as they know it they are forced to look at the unknown or rather unexplored side. What will be revealed, demon or angel? Perhaps a Gargoyle with a lollipop in their claw?
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