We’re a 10-minute walk from the Palace of Versailles. My wife attends ISIPCA, one of the most prestigious graduate perfumery programs in the world, and I’m an American writer living right outside Paris.
It may sound glamorous, but my daily routine hasn’t really changed. Before our move in October, I sat in front of a computer all day. After our move, my life has looked pretty much the same.
I must admit, there was a wide-eyed part of me that thought the lifestyle of an American expat living outside Paris would all but confirm my Great American Novel, but the reality was much more boring.
Although there are major differences in etiquette, architecture, food, and language, as a work-from-home writer, I was surprised to find myself mostly insulated from them.
I may live in France, but I spend most of my time in my apartment
I arrived here knowing nobody but my wife. Most of the time, I’m alone all day.
Sometimes I FaceTime friends and family back home, but the six-hour time difference forms a barrier. By the time they’re getting off work, it’s midnight in Versailles.
I can go days without speaking French, unless you count Babbel.
When I do, it’s in 60-second batches, ordering a baguette at the nearby boulangerie or picking up a cheap bottle of Beaujolais at the local épicerie for a carb-heavy dinner.
Then, I return to the apartment to write in English for hours on end, which is the same way I spent my time in New York.
Granted, there are reminders even in my apartment that I’m in a different place: The hot water doesn’t last long, the kitchen tile is a dark terra-cotta with darker grout, and the labels of the spices and sauces left behind in the kitchen are, naturally, all in French.
When I look out of the window, I see the slate-colored mansard roofs that match the persistent gray of wintry Versailles.
After a while, though, even these charming distinctions recede into the furniture of daily life.
After a month, I realized I had to go outside to truly be in France
As an expat working remotely, I soon realized I would have to be proactive if I wanted to meet new people.
The halcyon days of friends falling into my lap — as in college or in my early career, when my coworkers functioned as my adoptive New York family — were long gone. No, I would have to take initiative.
I made an effort to tap into the community of expat writers in Paris. I connected with a couple of Paris-based writers online, and then met up with them for coffee.
One of them, a poet and a scholar, told me about an Anglophone writers’ salon in Paris. I went to the event, read some of my work, and met fellow English-speaking writers, mostly American and British.
Another invited me to a literary journal launch event in Le Marais. At the launch party, I ran into a few people I’d met at the salon a couple of days earlier, including a friendly English guy who invited me to a reading at his apartment in the 19th arrondissement.
Earlier that week, I didn’t know anyone in Paris. Suddenly, I was bumping into people I knew at a party, then getting invited to another one.
My daily routine may be similar in France, but living here has made me look at things differently
Parties always come to an end. Daily routine reasserts itself. My wife leaves first thing and doesn’t return until dark.
During the day, all I hear is the clacking of the keys and the groaning of the floorboards whenever I walk to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. I welcome chores and errands, which break up the lonely monotony.
When my wife comes home and asks me how my day was, I don’t know how to respond. “Same,” I think. “Always the same.”
That’s not entirely true, though. Some days are punctuated by heartwarming messages or small wins, like a friend reaching out or an editor accepting one of my stories.
The bulk of my daily activities, however, remains unchanged. Admittedly, this malaise may be more a function of remote work than being alone in a strange place; I felt a similar isolation working remotely in New York, after all.
It took my wife and me years to start to find a sense of community in our neighborhood. That didn’t just happen. We had to work for it. Around the time we were figuring that out, my wife got her acceptance letter.
I suppose the repetitiveness of daily life is hardly unique, but I was surprised to find how similar it was here. Routine notwithstanding, I’m lucky. I live in a beautiful place, and I get to do the thing I love, as does my wife.
Living in Versailles has put into focus something that was starting to come into view back in the US: The life you want doesn’t come knocking on your door, regardless of where you are. You have to go out and find it.
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