Why are we here?

Though most who are likely to take interest in this blog may already know the sequences of events that resulted in our move to France, some may not. And as someone who appreciates clear, thorough documentation, I figured I may as well leave it all out there. If not for you, than for Dorothy, and for my own memory box.

Please note, this is from my perspective only; Nils may recount things differently, though we are typically within at least 86% agreeance on most things — shout out to two years and three months of being happily married!

How It Started

On the topic of marriage, I believe this story begins with marrying a professional snowboarder, thereby committing my life to elements of uncertainty, including the somewhat inevitable transition that may result in snowboarding not being Nils’ primary source of income. All that goes to say — I knew Nils’ transition from snowboarding full-time to not snowboarding full-time would, indeed, be a transition for both of us. Despite having this knowledge, I am not sure that either of us thought that transition would happen when it did, as quickly as it did, or that it would involve an international relocation.

Though, we now all know where the story goes.

The background here is that Nils, who remains to be prepared, calm, wildly talented, and always humble, has been sitting on a Mechanical Engineering degree since 2020. Knowing that he could only throw himself off cliffs and down mountains for so long, you could say that he’s been planning for his transition all along, or that he at least sought out some level of future security for his back pocket. To date, Nils’ career as a professional snowboarder is a far cry from over. It just so happens that now he is also designing the boards that will allow him to do so.

Insert Salomon Snowboards — a long time sposor of Nils’ based out of Annecy, France. Those who know snowboarding well know that the industry is really quite small, and can be difficult to crack in to. From my perspective, those who work within it find themselves lucky, and happy to do so. A mix of passion and play, the promise to retain a sliver of indefinite youth and coolness. The potential for Nils to do just that landed on our horizon in January 2024. By mid-February we learned that, if offered the position to work on the Design Team for Salomon Snowboards, we would need to relocate to France full-time. From that point forward, the majority of our conversations followed predictable patterns.

“Do we keep the truck? The CR-V? The camper? The furniture? Who would rent the house? How would Lucy get there? What will we miss? What does this look like financially? Personally? And what about the family that we may or may not want to start? But, I’ve never even been to France! This is, like, a dream job. What about my job? My career?”

We remained level-headed, mostly, exhausting ourselves with what-ifs, looking for answers to something that was only a possibility.

“We can store the truck and the camper. Sell the CR-V. No, let’s not bring any furniture. We don’t know where we’re going to live, so, what’s the point? Lucy would just have one long day in a crate under a plane. Can we do that? People do it. It’s fine. No, we aren’t awful dog owners. But, think about what we gain. Maybe I’m not ready to have a baby anyways. You’ll love Annecy, and think about all the new places that you’ll get to run. You’re right. Maybe I will nanny? Maybe I can find a job teaching? I could reinvent myself? Write a book? It will be fine.”

The conversations were endless. No rock was left unturned. Though we could not predict how it would feel, or know what it would look like, we knew we would say yes, which is what we did in early April when the offical offer was extended. We would plan to arrive in early June. We were going to move to France.

Goodbye

Early April through the beginning of June were a hurried blur. I had a marathon to run, a school year to finish, a job to leave, family and friends to see, a house to pack up, a Visa to get, a life to say goodbye to, and so on. The list felt daunting and sad. Every week, our home grew more empty than the previous. The day we sold our couch was one of the saddest. I don’t know why, but something about not having anywhere to sit in the living room I had so carefully pieced together felt devestating. Our home wasn’t going to be our home anymore. Someone else was going to live in it. I cried, and cried, and cried.

It felt nonsensical — crying over something as impermenant and unimportant as a couch. But, it wasn’t all about the couch. It was everything. And, despite my dad telling me so, I refused to give credit to everything we had built. The routines, comfort, and ease. I told him I didn’t need those things, that I didn’t want to be like him and go to the same beach my whole life, that my career didn’t end in Sandy, Utah, that we could handle it. I was going to move to France. Nils was going to design snowboards.

My couch was gone, but there would be other couches.

I moved on, leaving plenty of saline for the future hardships, many of which I hadn’t anticipated — French haircuts, language barriers, living in a hotel, missing everything some days — the list goes on.

We packed our things, hoped that they would make it on the right boat or plane, said goodbye one hundred times over, corrected people when they said, “have a nice trip!”, shared final hugs under a Full Moon, and we left.

C'est tout pour le moment, bisous!