Welcome to Our Irregular Dispatch From French Life
This isn't your average newsletter. It’s the honest, occasionally ridiculous, behind-the-scenes look at what it's really like for two Americans and a Golden Retriever to move to France. Whether you’re a daydreamer, a planner, or already knee-deep in French paperwork, this is the one email you’ll actually look forward to.
Start from the beginning or with the most recent post. Hell, you can even pick any story that catches your eye.
What the Hell is Horseball?
When our French neighbor walked up the driveway and said “Horseball,” I had one question: what the hell is horseball? The answer involved horses, wine thermoses, and the perfect picnic.
The Mayor and Me
Soon after we arrived in our small village in the Loire Valley, I decided it would be a good idea to introduce myself to the mayor. It sounded like the kind of thoughtful thing responsible people do. The problem was that I had absolutely no reason to be meeting with the mayor.
Germany Seemed Like a Good Idea
The plan was simple: buy a car in Cologne, sell one near a U.S. Army base, celebrate in Reims with champagne by 7:30.
By nightfall I was standing outside a Pizza Hut in the rain.
It’s 2:50 a.m. This Seemed Reasonable.
I had just handed over a very expensive Mercedes to a man I’d never met, wearing knee-high athletic socks, at 3 a.m., with no paperwork, no receipt, and no tow truck.
And he was now towing it across 600 kilometers of French countryside.
The House Above Avignon
The steps weren’t consistent. Some were full, others barely counted as steps at all. My body kept correcting for what my eyes expected. I started letting the suitcase bounce off my thigh to help push it up, willing it to the top.
I Think It’s the Railroad Tracks
The car ran smoothly the rest of the drive, no warning lights, no drama, as if to say everything was fine and I had overreacted.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 16
France has a way of reminding you that control is temporary, plans are suggestions, and patience is not optional.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 15
You don’t learn France from guidebooks. You learn it from the people who quietly know how things actually work — and from realizing you’re still the idiot in the room.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 14
Paris has a way of testing you all day and then, just when you’re ready to leave, setting the table and reminding you why you stayed.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 13
Somewhere under the gravel, the moles are regrouping — and the dog is dreaming of dirt.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 12
It’s not exactly A Year in Provence. It’s more like A Year of Trying to Talk Pascal Into Just One More Project.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 11
In America, living in a cave means you’ve lost the plot. In France, it means you won the lottery.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 10
Market day in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue isn’t a stroll—it’s a full-contact sport of antiques, crowds, café dreams, and moments that only happen when you stop planning.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 9
If Olympic furniture moving were a sport, we’d have medaled that day.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 8
We chased a blur of legs through the Jura, nearly died on a mountain road, missed the finish line, and still had one of the best days of our lives.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 7
He pointed to a house. “Mon enfance,” he said. His childhood home. We stood there for a moment — him, lost in memory; me, calculating how long it would take to walk home dragging a deflated steel anvil.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 6
There I was, hose in hand, scrubbing a van I’d driven twenty miles — while Camille judged my sponge technique through a window.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 5
Honestly? A chipped front tooth looked better than a Bond villain cosplay.
Savoring the Chaos: Issue No. 4
Moving to a French village means learning unspoken rules—about neighbors, cars, paperwork, and space—that no guidebook ever warns you about.