This was a common response when I told friends and clients that I was moving to Europe–France specifically. There were more than a few expressions of incredulity. Some were fleeting as if the person realized their face revealed what they were thinking. Others… were blatantly disbelieving.
“What? But… how are you… ?” they would trail off, not sure how to politely get an answer to their question.
“Affording that?” I would finish their sentence.
I most often would consider this something of an insult. I could see it in their faces: You’re just a housecleaner–surely you don’t make enough money to do something as grandiose as moving abroad. I can’t afford it, how can you afford it?!
To be frank, I’ve not always been a solid money manager, so the cynicism was not entirely unfounded.
But there was something else–something more than the money aspect–that gave me pause to surmise, in the moment, whether to reveal more to the person or change the subject.
I was drawing outside the lines, defying (their) logic. Defying their biases. People “like me” didn’t get to go to Europe, let alone live there.
Now, I’m not saying that this was intentional. We all have our prejudices and ingrained ways of thinking, but it’s funny how some situations will divulge our inner workings without warning. Sometimes to our great embarrassment.
My own face, I think, belied my hurt feelings on a few occasions. And if the person had any decorum at all–some did not–an apology would ensue.
…
To Dream… Perchance to Live
If there’s one thing that a few of my friends would say about me, it’s that I probably shouldn’t be challenged. Tell me I can’t do something? Watch me.
I’m Gen X baby–a survivor–I’ll figure it out, in spades, and surpass all the pigeonholing.
Sometimes I go off the deep end to prove the point, but that is to kick my own self-imposed limitations in the ass.
I have been enchanted with France since junior high school when I took French. The teacher–I can remember her face, but sadly not her name–traveled often back and forth and told us stories about her trips. The day she brought croissants to class–I was hooked.
Growing up poor, Disneyland may as well have been the moon for as soon as I would get there. It seemed unimaginable. But I did it… after I graduated from college…which my mother also didn’t think I would do.
It wasn’t a particularly memorable trip other than the fact that I got to go. My friends, who lived in the area, had already been 5 times that summer and were quite over it as well as financially strapped, but they indulged me for 4 hours. I couldn’t find Mickey Mouse, but I did find Tigger.
In retrospect, that milestone subliminally, but not yet consciously, convinced me that I could do whatever I set my mind to.
Dreamer… meet Survivor.
This dream has ebbed and flowed since childhood, but it wasn’t until I sent my own child on an exchange student trip that it began to really tickle my brain. If I could send my daughter, why not me?
There’s got to be something better than in the middle.
~The Wallflowers
And that thought appeared during one of the darkest times of my life. It seemed impossible–Jupiter this time rather than the moon, but it was that tiny star that I could see amid the blackness of my world. I just kept moving toward it.
Not Sure How I Got Here
Have you ever been driving your car on a routine trip–to work, to the grocery store, to a friend’s house–and at some point you realize that you were on autopilot? Or maybe on a hike where you are just watching your feet trudge over the trail, your mind a million miles away, and you suddenly find you’ve gone farther than you expected to go? That’s how I feel sometimes about this move.
How did I get here? I’m not sure I could retrace my steps.
I didn’t fully engage with this dream of France until 2020–the terrible, no good, very bad year–when we all had to sit at home and contemplate our existence.
During one of those many ponderings, I concluded that I lived through three cancer bouts, a foreclosed house and subsequent financial devastation, and a sudden loss of my 13 year old business–and only source of income–to live the rest of my days in mediocrity.
I had been doom-scrolling social media and watching a certain group of people upend what I thought was settled democracy. While I know much of this was hyped up by the media, it was still alarming. How was anyone to know what was truthful and what wasn’t. That was my tipping point.
Divisive politics and strife were not going to be the headliner for my upcoming retirement. I had struggled enough–through my own nine circles of hell–to stay in the fray.
There comes a time, I think, in most people’s lives when they draw the line of what they are and are not willing to do. With age (hopefully) comes wisdom and the clarity of the moment for me was profound. I was going to move to France and live out the remainder of my days eating bread and cheese and drinking wine and saying “Ooh la la!”
I applied for my passport.
With my business gone and cost of living skyrocketing I worked for two more years, sold my condo for a nice profit and went east, that much closer to France, to hang out with my daughter and her family for a year.
They say that one only needs to hold the intention, the vision, of the prize–not the how–to achieve it. And now, I know that to be true. I didn’t win the lottery and I only have half of the proceeds left from the sale of my condo, but I still was granted a visa proving that wealth isn’t necessary for travel.
I didn’t try to control the process, but let the process reveal itself and do what I was compelled to do in the moment. That was tough for this professed control-freak. If there was trouble or things weren’t going well, I let it be. When it came up again, it was smooth and easy. And now… it’s happening!
I’m sure there are more than a few people gawking at my back in disbelief, but that is their own indecision and ambiguity. Theirs to deal with. I’ve earned this.
So, here I sit, in England… on the eve of realizing a near 50-year dream of France.
For those who doubted me…
AWill Writing 