Two Years, One Post

When we left off in July 2014, I flew back to the U.S. for a short summer break. I had already decided to stay on for the upcoming school year in a different post at the high school. Being an English assistant had been such a wonderful experience, but I couldn’t reapply for the program no matter how much I enjoyed teaching. I knew that I wasn’t ready to leave France yet, so I began working 40 hours a week as a surveillante, a general secretary/resident advisor-type position that exists only in this country. (You can see a few mentions of my surveillant colleagues in past posts, as well as on the Cast of Characters page.) With the longer hours, I couldn’t get back into the blogging swing of things, but I was plenty busy working with my kiddos, singing in choir, and starting a new sport: karate.

After five years apart from my muay thai trainer, I was more than ready to punch something. After one year in France, my love of croissants had caught up to me and I was also very ready to start exercising. I strapped on my kimono and got to work on my katas, but I also met a certain young man. [Side note: Ladies, if you’re looking for a mister, look no further than your local male-dominated sportsy sports place. I’m talking golf, weight training, martial arts…your chances are good. Real good. Guys, it might be time to try yoga.] We started dating and were all set to spend the rest of our lives together by December.

My chéri is a country boy who lived in his hometown for 27 years before jumping on this crazy American train. He bought his grandparents’ old farmhouse after his granddad passed away and has been renovating it for four years. Very sweet. Very The Notebook. But when I told him that I wouldn’t be able to stay in France forever, and that I already had plans to attend law school in the States the following year, Chéri decided he was coming with me. We had been together for six months.

So, we went to law school. We read. Lord, we read. Chéri learned English and I learned what torts are. Somewhere along the way, I realized that I was not happy to be there. My partner was not happy to be there. We went a year before recognizing our mutual homesickness for Normandy. So we went back.

Last July, we packed up our American apartment and flew back to Normandy. We moved back into our old house, contacted our old employers, and picked up right where we left off.

Just like this blog.


The Right Time

I like time. I always liked numbers (never math) and the way they formed patterns. 17 steps in my childhood stairway. 800 mississippis from the base of the mountain to my aunt’s house.

Diets must always begin on a Monday. The radio volume should be set to factors of 5 or a number ending in 2.

That’s why, even though I’ve been ready for months, the blog is starting now. January 2017. A new year, a new writing habit, and one I’d certainly like to keep.

A few things have changed in the nearly two years since I set down my metaphorical quill. I’m still (back) in France, but I’m no longer in quite the tourist mode I was before. More on that later.

So, welcome back. Take a look around, re-read a few of my old favorite posts here, here, and here, and stay tuned for new blogs every week.