I’ve been reading David Lebovitz’s book, “L’appart,” chronicling his experience buying and renovating an apartment in Paris, where he moved after living many years in San Francisco. Something he wrote resonated with me: “I haven’t been a lifelong Francophile, one of those people who kept a poster of the Eiffel Tower by his bedroom window… I didn’t devour books about how effortlessly chic Parisians are, and never envied how French people could tie a scarf with a certain je ne sais quoi that I could never hope to achieve.” I, too, never thought much about France. I chose to study Spanish in school. France was as interesting to me as any other part of Europe.

It dawned on me that our decision to move to France was not so much to move to France as it was a desire to move away from our hectic life in Northern California, and to…somewhere different. We had been talking about moving for quite a while. We looked at houses listed online in places that appealed to us, like Portland, Oregon, but no house suited us as much as the one we had, and there was never a moment when it felt like the right time to leave. An international move was more intriguing to us anyway.

The most obvious place to consider was Austria, where my husband, Bob, was born and has many aunts, uncles, and cousins. We’ve visited there many times and love exploring the Austrian countryside. But Austria somehow didn’t fit our goals. We knew we wanted to be able to use our new home as a base for further travel, so it had to be easy to travel from. Weather was a factor, not too hot or too cold, but the idea of real changing seasons was appealing. And housing prices were a consideration. The fact that we would need to learn a new language and culture was exciting and scary. Mostly exciting. Becoming bilingual has long been on my bucket list.

France was quietly waiting for us. I had visited my friend Connie there a few times without Bob, and when I returned home I always told him what a sweet life she has, and how simple and satisfying it must be to live there in the beautiful countryside of the Loire Valley, away from — but not that far from — the hustle-bustle of Paris. I was eager to return there with him so he could see for himself.

Last spring we took a trip to Europe, starting in Paris and ending five weeks later in Venice. We enjoyed a few days in Paris and then headed into the Loire to see Connie. She proudly showed us her life, introducing us to many of her friends and neighbors, cooking for us (a real treat as she is a former chef), and taking us on excursions through the lovely countryside, which, at the time was blooming with neon-yellow rapeseed.

After we left Connie, we couldn’t stop talking about our experience there with her. All the “what ifs” started then, and continued for the rest of our trip. We returned to California a few weeks later and resumed our usual routines. Surprisingly, our fascination with the idea of moving to France did not diminish. We eventually decided to return a few months later to spend more time exploring the crazy idea of moving to the tiny French village with which we were falling in love. So, in September we were back again, and had made arrangements to look at houses for sale, just to see what kinds of places might be an option for us.

When we stumbled upon a 300 yr old house for sale right in the middle of the village, we knew we’d found the reason to move. The house needed extensive renovations, but that was something that excited us, and once we found that house, we were sure of our decision to go to France and into a new life.

This is where my blog first picked up the story, and if you want to start at the beginning, you should scroll down and catch up.