A recurring thought on this trip has been whether I should move to France.
This land of cheese and wine and art has always been a distant future home in my mind, there as a dream I never fully quite had the nerve or desire to engender as reality but a dream I’ve held onto nonetheless.
Part of it is due to emotional attachment. My mom was born in Hong Kong, but she grew up in Paris and finished her schooling there, including passing the difficult baccalaureate exam. She has what I call Frenchisms, from the way she raves about crepes and pastries she used to eat to how she exclaims “alors” in exasperation and how in the mornings the first thing she always says to me over a cup of tea is, “ça va, ma cherie?” It’s never in Cantonese, her mother tongue.
My memories of our family trips to Paris, the countryside and Brittany have a warm glow about them. I draw on these memories, like sipping through a straw, when I think about new possibilities for my life. Maybe, just maybe, I could live there, and become a Frenchy too?
This time, I vacationed in France alone, and coming back by myself gave me space to really try it out, as if I were an expat transplant. I gave myself plenty of time, a month, to sink in. By the end, the question wasn’t whether I could live there, but whether I could thrive there.
There’d be the usual cultural mishaps, awkwardness and frustrations. Americans try to please everyone. French say it like it is and aren’t afraid to dig into controversial topics. I see the issue with both. But the honest truth is I’d much rather deal with someone who earnestly smiles and lays on their opinions a bit gentler than someone who, in most contexts, would be easily misconstrued as being rude.
Yet those are inconsequential irritations that can be smoothed over with patience and understanding. They’re overruled by what I’ve always loved about France, old-school values placed on living life, not work, to its fullest through the appreciation of simple but well-made things among friends and family. It’s the enjoyment of savory food, the rich wines, the café culture, the art and history, a life seemingly outside of phones and hell-bent capitalism. I’d be idealizing these values as a sort of fantasy, if I hadn’t actually experienced the best parts of such a world for myself, from my childhood to my most recent trip. In Paris, I’d be surrounded by artists like me and literature and art and music that inspire me. Such an environment would likely boost my own ambition to experiment and create, something that is really important to me at this stage of life.
Okay, so there’s the mode of living settled. What about a job? Opportunities aren’t exactly dropping out of the sky, as 8% of the country can’t find work. (San Jose’s jobless rate is 2%.) I could try to be a journalist in Paris, or become purely a creative writer, freelancing short stories and working on novels. Or I could work for an American company in France, which would likely ease the transition to a new culture. Anyway, still a question mark.
Logistically, it’d be easy to move. I have French citizenship, so there wouldn’t be visa applications or limits to my stay. I’d of course take lessons to improve my French language skills. There are family friends around, so that’s a built-in support system. Housing wouldn’t be more than rents in California or Hong Kong. But other issues would be making a new community, difficulties with taking care of my parents and the risk of my relationships with my brothers growing apart as we grow older and lead separate lives. For now, there appear to be a few more cons than pros. Moving to France remains a dangling dream.
