Hey there —
First things first: thanks for being here.
This is the very first issue of Savoring the Chaos, and if you’ve landed here, you’re either dreaming about moving to France, seriously planning it, or just curious what it really looks like once the filters come off.
This newsletter isn’t about romantic clichés.
It’s about real life — the good, the weird, and the downright bureaucratic.
Each issue, I’ll share a story from the road, a cultural quirk, a useful tip, or something that surprised me along the way. Maybe it’ll help you make the move. Maybe it’ll just make you laugh. Either way, you’re welcome here.
Now, let’s begin where this whole story actually started...
The day we finally said it out loud
It was November 2020. Mid-pandemic. We were living in Newport Beach, California — great weather, great neighborhood, great life on paper. But if you remember California in the thick of COVID... it wasn’t exactly paradise.
We were juggling lockdowns, rising tension, and this creeping feeling that something just didn’t fit anymore. I was out in my garage-turned-office when I got a text from D: "We need to talk." You know that kind of message. It either means someone’s in trouble, or something’s about to shift. My first thought? Holy f***... what did I do? My second thought? Thank God I hadn’t done anything wrong — at least not recently.
I walked into her office, sat down, and she took my hands, looked me dead in the eye, and asked: "What are we doing here?" I gave her the usual: "We live in one of the nicest spots in California. We worked hard to get here." She nodded... then asked it again: "No. Really. What are we doing here?"
I remember just blurting it out right there in the moment — "We can't move straight from here. We'll get crushed by taxes." Not exactly poetic. But true.
So we got practical.
We needed a no-tax state. We kicked around the usual suspects: Alaska, Wyoming, South Dakota, Texas, Tennessee, New Hampshire. All solid on paper. But when we ran it through the real-life filter — distance, weather, family, familiarity — only one floated to the top: Florida. We knew it. I went to school there. We had family there. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. We could manage a year.
Not forever. Just enough to exit the U.S. clean, spend time with people we loved, and stage the move to France with our heads on straight.
Sometimes life doesn’t start with a grand plan. Sometimes it starts with a text, a look, and a question that shifts everything: "What are we doing here?" And if you answer it honestly... you might just end up somewhere beautiful.
"SOMETIMES LIFE DOESN’T START WITH A GRAND PLAN. SOMETIMES IT STARTS WITH A TEXT, A LOOK, AND A QUESTION THAT SHIFTS EVERYTHING
THINGS THAT MAY SURPRISE YOU
ONE SURPRISING INSIGHT
If you’re wandering through a French grocery store wondering why the eggs are just... sitting there on a shelf like they don’t have a care in the world — welcome to Europe. Over here, eggs come with their natural protective coating still on — it’s called the “bloom” — and it keeps bacteria out and freshness in. No fridge required.
But in the U.S.? We scrub that coating right off in the name of food safety, which ironically creates the problem — naked eggs that have to live in the fridge forever like little dairy prisoners. The French didn’t forget to refrigerate their eggs — they just never ruined them in the first place.
ONE THING TO SEE
Saint-Rémy is pure Provence — the kind of place that makes you stop and say, yep, this is exactly what I pictured. The stone buildings glow in the sunlight, the market spills through the streets like a postcard come to life, and everything feels wrapped in charm. It’s beautiful. Truly.
But for me, it felt more like a dream version of France than the everyday one. It’s perfect for a visit — even a long one — but when it came time to think about living somewhere full-time, I found myself leaning toward places with a little less polish and a little more real life in the mix.
If you go — and you should — wander a few streets off the main drag. Find the bakery where the locals go. That’s where Provence feels real.
ONE FRENCH QUIRK
One of the stranger little French quirks — and trust me, there are plenty — is that dogs here are supposed to be named based on the letter assigned to their birth year. It’s not a law, but it’s a thing. Breeders follow it, old-timers love it, and honestly... it’s weird enough to be charming.
2023 was the letter “U” — which feels like a cruel joke for anyone standing in their yard shouting Ulysse or Uranus (yes, that’s a real dog name here). In fact, our youngest dog, Viggo, lucked out. He
was born in early 2024 — the letter “V” — which gave us a fighting chance to give him a name that didn’t sound like a pharmaceutical.
Sully? He’s American. No rules. No letters. Just a California boy living large in French wine country — the way nature intended.
Until next time, savor the chaos.
P.S. — Since this is the very first edition, I’d love to hear from you.
If there’s something you want to know more about — the visa process, cultural quirks, real estate, dogs, cheese politics, whatever — reply and let me know. This newsletter isn’t some polished lifestyle brand. It’s a real-time dispatch from someone who traded a career in investment banking for an adventure in France.
I’m not a content creator or marketing guru. I’m just a guy who finally said yes to a dream — and wants to help others do the same.
Thanks for being here.
Truly.
— Paul
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