365 days, approximately 400 baguettes, and one boyfriend I still quite like.
Today marks one year since I arrived in France.
One year. Which feels slightly impossible. Because I am pretty sure that only three weeks ago I was sitting in the middle of our new apartment, surrounded by boxes, trying to remember which box contained the forks.
Spoiler:
It was not the box labelled “kitchen.” It was the box labelled “random things we might need someday.” Very useful. Very organised. Definitely my fault.
Apparently, that was twelve months ago. Time is strange. And slightly rude.
A new country, a new language… and a lot of guessing
Moving to another country is a funny experience.
You suddenly become a beginner at things you have done your whole life.
- Buying groceries.
- Reading paperwork.
- Understanding why there are seventeen different types of cheese that all look slightly dangerous.
- Finding the correct bin for your recycling.
(France, I love you, but your bins are a personal challenge.)
Before moving here, I knew France through holidays, books, films, food…
And through the very confident opinions of people who had visited Paris for four days and somehow became international experts.
Living here is different. It is more complicated. More beautiful. And sometimes much more confusing.
My French adventure (with occasional disasters)
My French has improved a lot this year.
- I can have conversations.
- I can order food.
- I can ask for directions.
- I can even make jokes.
- Sometimes people laugh because my joke was funny.
- Sometimes they laugh because my sentence was completely wrong.
I choose to believe it is always the first one.
Progress.
My favourite thing about learning a language is that you discover new ways to embarrass yourself.
One day I was trying to explain something very simple and somehow ended up having a serious conversation about a horse.
I still don’t know how we got there. The horse was innocent.
Probably.
Being deaf in a new country
Moving here was also a big change because of my deafness.
I already used Danish Sign Language and British Sign Language, but French Sign Language was completely new for me.
And no, sign languages are not universal.
I wish they were. It would have saved me a lot of confused facial expressions.
I am learning LSF now.
- Slowly.
- Sometimes beautifully.
- Sometimes with the feeling that my brain has decided to take a small holiday.
There have been difficult moments.
- Appointments where communication was exhausting.
- People who spoke to my boyfriend instead of me when they realised I was deaf.
- People who assumed that because I can speak, I can hear. (Plot twist: I cannot.)
But there have also been so many kind moments.
- The pharmacist who immediately wrote everything down without making it a big deal.
- The waitress who noticed I was reading lips and moved us somewhere with better lighting.
- The neighbour who learned a few signs just to say hello.
Small things. But small things matter.
Sometimes a place starts feeling like home because someone makes an effort to meet you halfway.
France, you are dangerous for my kitchen
Now, obviously, we need to talk about food.
Because moving to France while already loving cooking was either:
- a wonderful decision,
or
- a complete lack of self-control.
Probably both.
France has introduced me to many beautiful things.
- Cheeses I still cannot pronounce correctly.
- Breads I pretend I will only buy one of.
- Butter that has changed my standards forever.
- And pastries that have made me question every healthy decision I have ever made.
Buying a baguette on the way home sounds simple.
But somehow, sometimes, the baguette becomes smaller before arriving at the apartment.
A mystery.
A very delicious mystery.
Living here has also changed the way I cook.
I mix flavours from the places that shaped me:
- Denmark.
- Ukraine.
- France.
Sometimes it creates something wonderful.
Sometimes my boyfriend looks into the pan, looks at me, and signs:
“Are you sure?”
This is usually not a question about my confidence.
It is a question about whether he should prepare a backup dinner.
The answer is:
Maybe.
Our little French life ❤️
But when I think about this first year, I don’t think about France.
Not really, I think about us in France.
- Our first apartment with almost no furniture.
- Eating takeaway on the floor because we had no table.
- Our first grocery shopping trip where we spent too much money and still forgot something important.
(Usually something I was convinced we already had.)
- The first time we cooked together in our tiny kitchen.
- The dinners that went wrong but were still delicious.
- Sunday mornings.
- Coffee.
- Laundry.
- Grocery lists.
- Him stealing pieces of food while I cook.
- Me stealing his clothes.
A very fair exchange.
It is funny.
You move hundreds of kilometres away, and eventually your world becomes smaller.
But in the best possible way.
Small like:
- two mugs next to the sink.
- His shoes beside mine.
- A hand automatically finding yours while walking.
- Someone knowing exactly what your face means before you say anything.
- A thousand ordinary moments that quietly become yours.
One year later
- My French is better.
- My LSF is better.
- Our apartment finally looks like a home.
- I still don’t understand every piece of French paperwork.
- I have eaten an unreasonable amount of cheese.
- I have developed strong opinions about butter.
And somewhere along the way… France stopped feeling like the country I moved to. It started feeling like home. And honestly?
I think that is a pretty good achievement for one year.
And to you, mon amour… ❤️
Thank you.
Thank you for bringing me here with you..
- For learning how I communicate instead of expecting me to adapt alone.
- For being patient when things are complicated.
- For making space for my deafness without ever treating it like something that needs fixing.
Thank you for trying my experiments in the kitchen. Even the soup.
We agreed never to talk about the soup again. But bravery deserves recognition.
Thank you for making me laugh when I miss home.
- For holding my hand when things feel harder.
- For building this strange, wonderful, slightly chaotic French life with me.
Je t’aime.
- More than fresh bread.
- More than Parmesan.
- Possibly even more than butter.
And if you know me, you understand how serious that is.
Happy one year in France, mon amour.
Here’s to another year of:
- new recipes,
- new mistakes,
- terrible French pronunciation,
- good food,
- and questionable decisions.
But please…
stop eating the ingredients while I’m cooking.
I need those.
xo,
Eva ❤️