Bring in the Clowns.

No, I don't have a reason for this picture.  I just like it.  A few doors on our street.

Last week, Jim met a woman in the park, while walking our dog.   Her name was Elizabeth and she told him that she was recently divorced. “A big divorce, in all of the newspapers,” she said.  He expressed sympathy, to which she replied:  “oh, everyone eventually gets divorced, you will too!”   He neglected to get her last name though, so I can’t Google her divorce story.  She did give him her phone number though (which he promptly discarded, of course). 

A day in Champagne.

Notwithstanding the inevitable divorce, people still seem to enjoy getting married.   And furthermore, a plethora of them travel here for their wedding photos.   This is just a small sampling of what we see on a daily basis.  

All the world loves a bride?

I know that some people think this is cheesy, but I like it.    If for no other reason, then it means that people are still traveling.   More importantly, amid all the terrorism, mass shootings, and rampant political insanity, people continue to live their lives.   Like this . . .  

Dad and daughter: the daily baguette purchase.

and this . . .

2016 Euro Cup.  The tower is lit up each night with the recent winning team's colors.

and THIS . . .

Prom!

Prom with photo bomb of  Euro Cup fans.

The French consider it bad form to ask someone what he or she does for a living.  Truthfully, I was quite happy to hear this.   Back when I was fully utilizing my college degree, I loved getting this question at parties.  I could blather on endlessly about my “very important” job.  It’s been several years since I’ve been gainfully employed, and I’ve come to dread the inevitable, “ . . .  and, what do you do?”   In France, I still get a variation of this question:  “tell me REALLY, why did you decide to move here?”   As we’ve said, the short answer is a flippant “why not.”   For me however, the real answer goes back a bit further.

A visit from the beautiful Burns cousins.

At my first job after graduating from college, I found that most of my fellow new hires were a bit younger than me.  They had experienced a more orthodox undergraduate life.   Frat parties and sorority formals, rush week, the fervent devotion to their school’s sports teams, the roommate who became their best friend or worst nightmare.  On and on they would wax poetic about their university experiences, lamenting that those carefree days were over.   But, the main thing that always stuck with me, gave me serious FOMO, was when they would talk about their travel.  Semesters abroad in Madrid, internships in London, summer escapades through Europe with the bestie roommate, service trips to various South American locales, saving humanity in myriad Asian countries.  Oh, the times they had!  

A food tour in the 11th Arrondissement:  black bread, meat candy, a weird doll shop, and the famous black cat cafe.

A gathering at the Trocadero to honor the Orlando victims.

 I did not have a conventional route to higher education, and thus, didn’t believe at the time that my own story was that interesting – certainly not to these folks.   Sitting in that NYC conference room of long ago, listening to those people ramble on, it became important to me that my future offspring have their own great stories.   And for me, this all came down to the ability to travel.   With hindsight and age, I now know that my own story was fine in its own right (hairdresser becomes  community college student becomes Rutgers graduate is a decent story).  Frankly, the only thing remotely interesting about the above mentioned colleagues were their travel stories.   The yarns about their college antics honestly became a little tedious after awhile.   But the travel!  That was something for me to strive for. 

Beautiful mother of above cousins, the other Susan Burns, at Le Scossa.

Aside from the “why” question, we are also given lots of feedback about our decision to return home after just one year.  Most of it is constructive, from people who’ve done this, and are trying to gently prepare us.   Some of it is less helpful.

 “No one will want to listen to your stories.”  This particularly amuses me.  As if I’ll be subjecting my friends to constant home movies, but French style.  Picture this, if you will:  naturally, I’m in black Chanel, well groomed & well behaved golden-doodle by my side, my red lips are pursed, my cheekbones chizzled, my gaze disdainful.   I regale you with a Parisian tale every time I see you, or remind you of your inferiority to me, because as you know, I’ve lived abroad.   All while smoking my Gauloises.   I won’t be doing this.  I don’t smoke and my dog is not well behaved. 

Saintly, patient husband.  Yeah, I already posted it on Facebook.   It's a good picture!

“No one will care what you have to say.”  This comment can be attributed to a woman we recently met.  An accomplished author, who was very cordial, but I found to be a little smug.  Because I am somewhat slow-witted, I couldn’t think of an immediately clever response to this comment.  So, I just dumbly agreed with her.  What I wish I’d said was:  “Is that true, does really no one care what you have to say, when you go home?   Perhaps it's because your snide comments can make people feel bad?”  It’s fun to pretend I have the cojones to actually say this to someone.  I don’t.

I suspect she meant well, in her own way.   Still, it makes me appreciate my friends.  The ones I'm lucky enough to go home to, and the lovelies I've met here.   Friends who might be thinking, “no one will care what you have to say”, but are kind enough to actually say, “it will all be okay.”  Really, sometimes that’s all a person needs to hear.

Friends who say "it will all be okay."  Thank you.

"Why are you going back?!"  The people that ask this are of two types.   There are those that really dislike from where they moved.  The majority seems to be from Houston – I’ve not been, so I can’t comment, but I’m sure it’s lovely there.   The other type are those that have moved around so much, it may be difficult for them to imagine having a community they’d want to return to.   Clearly, these people have never had their house tp’d (by a devoted, albeit intoxicated, group of friends).   Nothing says community like waking up to damp toilet paper lovingly weaved through the lattice work of your fence.   I love my friends.

However, the comment that stings the most is this one: “You’re only staying for one year? Really?  It might be hard for your kids to adjust back.”   What I’d like to say to these people, with all due respect, is:  I’ve considered this already, so unless you have something helpful to say, please just stop.  In the great flowchart of life, our options were to not do this at all, or just for a year, and we choose the latter.    

The kids are alright.

Yes, it might be challenging for them when they return.  I’ve agonized over it, lost sleep over it, belabored the topic endlessly with my patient friends, alluded to it in this blog, and driven my husband crazy with my insane angst.    They also might be just fine, and will hopefully reflect back on this disruption in their lives as worthwhile.   Either way, it’s their reality and they are very capable of handling it.   In any event, they’ll have a story.    Just like this guy probably does.  I wonder where his parents forced him to move for just a year?

À bientôt