It was one year ago today that I groggily disembarked from a plane, hopped in a taxi that, in retrospect, overcharged me, and found myself in an aparthotel at the back end of La Défense.
As the Purrito will rightly state, our official expatriation anniversary is not until June, but it was at this time last year that I pulled up stakes, left the fuzzballs in her care, and acted as the advance scout for the adventure that we’re still very much in the middle of.
It’s strange to think back on those six weeks alone, dinners consisting of breaded merlan or chicken paired with broccoli, and compare it with our shopping routine on the weekend on which we hit a wine store, a fromagerie, a poissonerie, and a boucherie.
It’s strange to reflect on how unfamiliar and uncomfortable the center of the city was, and how easy it was to stay within the confines of Courbevoie; I’m up here every day, but I don’t live up here anymore, and it’s perhaps a bit surprising to me how much of a difference this makes.
It’s strange to acknowledge how uncomfortable and foreign everything felt, and how comfortable things now are, most of the time.
Here we are though.
Here I am.