It’s a start.
Much to Dorothy’s dismay, this is not a handwritten letter from France, though I believe it’s a start. I’ve received reports that she worries that we — we, being the general population, of course, but more specifically, my brothers and I — no longer know how to write or communicate. I am sure this report has been embellished by the messengers (my parents), though I stand by Dorothy’s concern.
More entertaining than this is knowing the way my dad will feel when he recognizes that the whole point of the blog is for his mother. It certainly is not only for Dorothy, his mother, my grandmother, who I hope is reading this through her pixelated 2007 computer screen (Hi, Grammie!). It’s for anyone who cares to read. And perhaps it is mostly for myself — a space for formal documentation? a creative outlet? something new to distract me from learning French? some ego-driven attempt at being relevant but not trendy? Likely a combination of all that I hope to find joy in. But, none of those are worthy titles.
That being said, I’m sure my dad would have been delighted had the title of the blog been “For Tim” or “For My Dad”. Maybe next time, Dad.
Today is our eighty-eighth day in Annecy. It is a Wednesday at 9:46am and I am home, drinking barely warm coffee, listening to the dings of the bus lines and the nasally snore of an always tired Springer Spaniel. Students here in France do not start going to school for 5 days a week until they are in collège (middle school). Lucky for me, I am an enseignante d'école primaire — which ensures my Wednesdays are not spent teaching, but spent recovering from the chaos that is teaching elementary school and hanging out with Lucy. There are heaps of other items on my Wednesday To-Do List — grocery shop, plan Thursday, plan Friday, clean, retrieve my bus pass that never arrived, run, return a pair of pants, buy any article of home furnishings that we do not have (which is basically everything), study French, stop sneezing, become a better person in my 9 hours of free-time, etc.
As you can see, starting a blog was not specifically one of them. But, I am sick — thank you public transit, thank you 9-year-olds. So, here we are, shaking hands with a new hobby that may or may not stick.
There have been many lows and many highs since we arrived. I hope to share them as they come, and reflect on them as they pass. For now I can confirm that starting over is not for the faint of heart. Yes, France is incredible. And yes, this may have been a once in a lifetime opportunity that we could not possibly say no to. Indeed, an opportunity I am foolishly grateful for. That gratitude does not negate the elements that have been taxing, though I am trying — really, really trying — to shift my lens and see the challenges differently.
“I gave up my role and comfort in my work to start over and I have no idea how to teach elementary school,” becomes, “I am becoming a different version of an educator, a version I would not have known otherwise.” Easier said than done, but that is another story.
“I’m never going to be a parent.” This felt huge and awful at first, but also, “I have years of health ahead of me, and look at what I am doing, look at what we are doing.”
“I miss my friends,” which I do, tremendously, but, “I am meeting people from all over the world who have been so, so, kind.”
“We hardly got to use the new camper,” which is true, though, “we brought our dog to freaking Paris for her 6th birthday and it was the happiest weekend ever.”
“This was a huge mistake,” versus, “it’s only been 88 days, just wait.”
These conversations are occuring internally, almost constantly, and some days I do not feel as tough as I thought I was. Yet, there are new-to-me highs almost everyday that I cannot possibly capture in a text to friend, a ranty MarcoPolo message, or a quick Instagram recap. Plus, I would love to keep my grandma in the loop, and perhaps you, too.
More to come, bisous.
