Summary

An elderly individual recounts a challenging day in their first year of moving to France, which tests their resolve and leads to a moment of self-reflection and resilience.

Abstract

In a personal narrative, the author describes their decision to move to France at the age of 68, driven by a desire for change and adventure. Despite initial excitement and bravery, the author faces a day filled with mishaps and cultural misunderstandings, including a sleepless night after a nightmare, a broken egg in a shop, language barriers, and perceived snubs from acquaintances. These incidents culminate in a deep sense of loneliness and a fleeting wish to leave France. However, a walk through the vineyards offers a change in perspective, and the author ends the day with renewed optimism. The story concludes with the author still residing in France eight years later, affirming the value of maintaining perspective and embracing both the good and challenging aspects of life's adventures.

Opinions

The author expresses a sense of accomplishment and pride in having moved to France despite the challenges faced.
There is a clear acknowledgment of the difficulties and embarrassments that come with not speaking the local language fluently.
The author initially feels judged and isolated by the community, particularly when facing minor but collectively disheartening incidents.
A moment of homesickness and doubt about the move to France is candidly shared, revealing the author's vulnerability.
The author finds solace and a sense of recovery through a solitary walk in nature, suggesting a belief in the therapeutic power of the natural environment.
Reflecting on the experience, the author encourages readers to subscribe to their writing, indicating a sense of purpose and community in sharing stories and supporting fellow writers on Medium.
The overall message conveys resilience and the importance of perseverance, suggesting that difficult days are a universal experience, regardless of location.

My First Year in France, Recalling a Day When Nothing Went Right

I was 68, and I wanted to do something different with my life. I wasn’t sure exactly what, but moving to France seemed like a good idea.

Not everyone shared my opinion, but I went anyway.

At first, I was just thrilled to have made the move. Everything was new and exciting and I felt brave and adventurous.

Still, there were moments when I wondered if I should have listened to the warnings. Here is what I wrote about one particular day when nothing seemed to go right.

Yesterday was not a good day. I woke up around 5 a.m. from a hideous nightmare (is there any other kind?) that I couldn’t shake.

I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was out of coffee and the fridge was empty. Not an auspicious start.

At 8 a.m., I walked up to the butcher who also sold eggs. As I was filling the paper bag, an egg slipped from my fingers and splattered across the floor.

I glanced over at the butcher’s wife behind the counter– usually the soul of friendliness even though my French often leaves her looking confused.

“Désolé,” I said. If I’d known how to say in French that I’d clean it up, I would have offered. Instead, I pantomimed.

She shook her head, brushed me aside and cleaned it up herself.

Maybe it wasn’t a good day for her either.

Not speaking the language is rife with opportunities for embarrassment. I decided I’d had my fill for the day and skipped getting coffee at the epicerie where the grocer also looks a bit confused at my French.

On the way back to the apartment, I saw a woman who I often stop and talk to. She’s English. I thought she saw me and I waved. She didn’t wave back, just ducked inside her house. In the mood I was in, there was no explanation other than she was deliberately avoiding me.

The day seemed to get worse, one trifling incident after another. None of them much individually, but collectively oppressive.

By six that evening I was in a deep funk.

Then I heard music and laughter from the next door neighbor’s. A party. To which I hadn’t been invited.

Suddenly everything that had seemed charming and novel and idiosyncratic about France, about my village, took on new and unfriendly overtones.

For the first time since I’ve been here, I felt desperately homesick and alone.

France had run its course. If there had been a bus out of the village (the last one for the day had already left) I would have taken it. Where exactly I would have gone, I’m not sure, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted to be anywhere but in my village. . . or France.

Since I had nowhere to go, I set the timer on my iPhone for one hour and went for a walk in the vineyards instead.

Someone told me that you can walk through the vineyards all the way to Spain. That wasn’t my intention, although I have no doubt that you could if you wanted to.

I walked and walked and walked. Nothing but vines and more vines. Occasionally I’d scare a flock of birds out of the vines and they’d ascend in a squawking cloud that probably startled me more than I startled them.

After an hour, I walked back towards the village. By the time I reached the apartment, I felt better. Things improved from there and as I write this I’m feeling fine again. It’s to be expected I suppose, those days when nothing goes right. They can happen anywhere, France included.

Eight years later, I’m still in France, happy that I didn’t listen to well-meaning advice that might have discouraged my move. Good days and the few not so good are all part of the adventure. Just keep a sense of perspective and wait a while. Things usually get better.

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Thanks in advance, Janice

The Memoirist

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