Chère reader,

I fear you have come too late! I am writing to inform you that the voyage in France has ended, for now at least. However, another adventure has already begun.

Six months ago, I moved to the South of France, and it took about another three to start writing again. So if you want to know what happened before January, I would write some waffle about situational crushes and temporary (now ended) art exhibitions. I cooked a lot with my Belgian housemates, had dinner parties, returned to Paris, and saw a concert or two. Crashing a wedding party in a château. My mum visited. I discovered the best bakery with the best raspberry croissants. That time we met a guy at a bar, three of us ended up in his tiny plane over Marseille. The back and forth between our two local bars. The beaches. The picnics. A weekend in Lyon that coincided with the World Cup final… the silence that followed when France lost. The mice in our apartment. The leaky roof. I suppose there was no need to waffle; that just about sums it up.

And if I were to include Paris in this letter as an ode to my time in France, we really would need a few extra pages, and I simply don’t have time. But, in short, it was a summer filled with memories, dancing, midnight (or just night) buses, picnics and visitors. I had a kiss under the Eiffel Tower and ate a lot of ice-cream. I was a tourist until I was the tour guide, and then I was still the tourist. I feel less of a tourist now.

I would like to dedicate this letter to my favourite place, Marseille. I couldn’t count on my hands the moments I wish I could capture more delicately: the sunsets on the rocks and the food, the jazz and the salt in my hair from a cold-water swim. The makeshift sandwiches to the gourmet, sometimes (often) verging on pretentious, small plates. The running for the bus, waiting for the bus, or not coming at all because there was a grève. A veuve noire shot. To the hikes that weren’t really hikes and the Calanques and the conversations in coffee shops. My first football match. We lost. Yes, of course, I became an OM fan. The many, many places that do not open on Sundays or Mondays. The hours spent working in coffee shops. The money spent on coffee. I think I realise my main loves in life are: good food, sustainable fashion, literature, art, and the sea (all of which can be found to some capacity in Marseille). And my last night in France, in Marseille, waiting for the first boulangerie to open at 7:30 am and hazily eating a pistachio pain au chocolat as the sun rose.

There is a place, and then there are the people. I found my feet in the south but was grounded by the people. There is the woman who I engage in small talk with every Thursday morning at Body Pump. I miss my work colleagues already, who I’m sure don’t miss when I come in saying ‘I have another story to tell you’. The stories can usually be reduced to a date or a moment in which I embarrassed myself (sometimes, often, both). There are the artists who come into the gallery wanting to exhibit their new work. The already exhibiting artists and their art. Two of my best friends came and had a sejour gastronomique. The goodbyes and the hellos. The glorious friends I drag along to my next great idea of an adventure, whether culinary, artistic or requiring at least one hour of public transport to get there. The people you meet outside of Bar à Bieres, the pilot who flew us in his little airplane. Let’s share a Madeleine cocktail or a glass of red? Reader, we may never meet again. This paragraph is mainly in the present because I refuse to put the people I met in France in the past.

Reader, if you’re a regular here, you’ll know that I am a fan of short stories. I’m not, really; I prefer books with multiple chapters. But in France, a short story seemed easier to read, especially in its original language. Romance in lavender country also happened to be out of season. I have a continued loathing of dating apps, hats, men that smoke profusely on dates, and conversations about my parents, finance, and sport. Men that seem that they like you and then don’t message, unmatch, or worse, cancel dates. To the person that showed up at the gallery opening on my birthday, I will look back at this moment with a certain degree of fondness. I am no longer scared of motorbikes. I am still afraid to say how I feel for fear of rejection. The moments I overthought. The moments I didn’t think enough. The moments where I felt too confident but the profound moments of not feeling confident at all. My self-esteem got a boost sometimes, but it also got a beating. I think back to eight months ago when I moved to Paris and the moment I fell in love and also the moment I realised the you I fell in love with was fictional, despite being based on a true story. Now that short story is over, although it did take (almost) all my time in France to finish writing. Maybe this is a love letter, perhaps this is a thank you letter to the lessons learnt.

And the lessons learnt include the language, despite faults at times. This also includes, but is not limited to, learning that DeepL gets you nowhere. And the lessons learnt include being a little bolder. And the lessons learnt include becoming more sure of myself. And the lessons learnt are that I would love to run a place like the art gallery/restaurant I worked in. And the final lesson learnt is that I would like to make a difference, no matter how small.

Ends are also beginnings, so here is to both. À la prochaine,

Bisous, eleanor xx