I have been a francophile longer than I want to admit. It didn’t make sense to learn French living in the middle of Texas. I even chastised two friends for taking French. I took Spanish with pride. My goal was to travel the world, draw and speak Spanish. And, possibly, live in Spain.
France crept up in my love of Cancan dancers as a child. I’d swing my legs around and pretend to wear the layered dresses, swishing them around. I wanted to decorate my apartment dining rooms like French cafes, complete with a mural of France on the wall. Then there was the uncontrollable desire to be in francophone Africa and work at UNESCO in Paris.
My life stalled. My goal was not in alignment with my soul.
I finally surrendered to the nudges. I was happy in France in a past lifetime. Maybe three. The puzzle pieces now make a complete picture. France is home.
je suis Français
but it courses through my blood
like a silent stream
I even found my sweet spot. Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Sarte, de Beauvoir and Baldwin were friends there. Amis. The created history, literature and philosophy together. I’ve stepped into my path to do the same.
Originally published at Goodreads blog