Moving to France: Finding my toddler-like footing in always-enchanting France
I was 32 years old when I arrived, exhaustingly jubilant, on French soil with my petite black cat, two oversized suitcases, and my desktop computer. My expansive book collection remained in transit. Seventeen cardboard boxes were suspended above and over the Atlantic Ocean, just as I had been. Thirty-two years quickly transformed into an age of two. With my sense of wonder heightened, I began the chapter I define as “my second childhood.” I’d be role-playing as a toddler this time—and a French one at that!
I’d experience the amazement of discovery, the introduction to new foods, the learning of social norms, and a self-built version of the French language. Life was beginning again, almost as if from scratch. Dedicated to helping me assimilate and feel at home was my sweet husband who, at the time, held the title of ‘boyfriend.’ We serendipitously met years prior thanks to the Eames House, where I worked as an architectural guide and occasional conservationist.
Enthusiastically, we remained in touch, and after COVID restrictions closed and reopened borders, I bought a plane ticket from the West Coast US to Paris. I had never been to Europe, and this fact scratched at me incessantly. Plus, I was a year into my serious Duolingo French language streak. France and I—we were overdue for our rendez-vous.
Enchanted and wide-eyed
The handsome and kind man in question whisked me away from Charles de Gaulle airport. We spent our first date eating razor clams in a jazz café in Montmartre and then visited Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye with wide eyes. I was busy checking off so many bucket list items in one day while feeling the tingling of love—both for this person and this new-to-me culture. I was absolutely enchanted. A year and a half later came my across-the-globe move. Not to Paris, but to the South of France, to a rose-tinted city called Toulouse. Oh, the dramatic, soul-replenishing things we do for love, language, and exploration!
Image credits: Watching jazz in Montmartre, Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye, Le Centre Pompidou,
eating at Bouillon Julien, the Eiffel Tower as seen from the steps of Le Musée d’Art Moderne de Paris.
All images copyright Kelsey Rose/author.
Navigating the unfamiliar
What came along quickly after the move were the little things: understanding meters and grams, navigating the unfamiliar rules of the roads on a vintage Honda scooter, learning how to mail a letter at the post office, attending doctor appointments topless, or confusingly converting Celsius to something that made more sense to me. The big things thunderously rumbled me after a few months passed: mostly the loneliness of being separated from 98% of the people I love dearly. Complaining that you’re gloomy while residing in France—to Americans—is unfathomable, even to the one who was living the experience.
Scenes from life in Toulouse. All images taken by the author.
…and two years after
Exactly two years after moving countries, I am not quite a four-year-old French person yet. Being an immigrant doesn’t allow you to grow in a linear way like a “normal” life does. I continue to oscillate between feeling like a stumbling, goofy toddler, and seeming linguistically twelve. On my best days, I am more akin to the peaceful, self-assured version of me—beaming and soaking in my good fortune. Us two lovers planned and experienced a tiny, warm-hearted wedding in the Basque Country. Then, we moved to that region of France, settling in a small seaside Basque village called Ciboure. I am continuing my Duolingo streak (4 1/2 years without one day missed!); I abandoned my strict vegetarianism for chorizo and paella; and I am constantly amazed by the kindness and patience of every person I encounter. Quelle aventure !

Scenes from life in the French Basque Country. All images taken by the author.
All of my moments of learning include taking mental and physical notes of the cultural differences between America and France. My knowledge of art, architecture, and design has heightened and sharpened itself through a French lens—a cherished realization.
In my future writings here, I hope to share more about the above-mentioned Villa Savoye, Audrey Hepburn exploring 1960s Paris, and how I am enveloping my days in curiosity and growth in this enticing, perplexing, trés incroyable second beginning at life.
I’d love to hear whether you’ve moved to France from elsewhere and how that experience changed your perception of your inner and outer world. Please share in the comments below.
I loved this, Kelsey Rose. Having done the same 32 years ago, I really connected with this article. After all of these years, i believe I’m stuck in the teenage years 😂😂. Could be worse, right?
Enjoy this life with its turns and its twists. Some days you’ll pinch yourself in disbelief that you’re actually living here. It feels so magical. Other days can feel lonely and we long for home. We miss simple chatter and friendly smiles that can seem so hard to find at times. Through it all, the language comes and the world opens up. Keep at it, live for each day and basque in the wonder of your new life.
Surtout, may your eyes always remain wide open.
Bon journée.
Suzanne
My first movie in New York City, at Radio City Music Hall, was “Funny Face” with Hepburn and Astaire. She does a fine jazz dance table top in a Parisian bar.
I found this fascinating. I just up and did this 35 years ago. Went with a friend, and design colleague. We naïvely were going to conquer the design field in Europe. Even though I was the one who had high school notions of French, my colleague initially did better than I, and using the Minitel (France was 10 years ahead of the rest of the world, having established a national intranet through an odd two color screen device given out by France Telecom with your phone connection) and he bagged himself a Stage (Apprenticeship) with one of the largest Ad agencies in the world’s Paris office. He was about to be hired full time when, unfortunately the Creative Director died over the weekend. Monday was not a good day for him, and six months later he went home with his tail between his legs, leaving me alone in the tiny 1 room apartment we’d sublet from a South Korean expat, which apartment we’d discovered on the bulletin board at the episcopal Cathedral of Paris basement. I stayed, and just as my colleague left, I got a return call from a person I’d contacted in my first weeks, from a book I’d picked up from Shakespeare & Co. called Paris Anglophone, featuring a seemingly endless list of Parisian companies that either catered to, or hired, Anglophones in Paris. From there ensued the wildest adventure of my life, which saw me ultimately designing the first website for Gaz de France (the French national gas company), with a whole bunch of awards and successes in between. Wild!
For various and sundry reasons I returned to the U.S. importing my French fiancée and her 4-year-old daughter, who was mostly raised in this odd land of my origins alongside her sister, born in the U.S.
And, now, after, 30 years, having largely succeeded, in a high tech career that was jump started by that time in Paris, I’m taking that retirement fund, largely gained thereby, and returning before year’s end.
Apparently, once you go native, it’s eternal.