Every transition in life, like the one I’m in the middle of, comes at a price but also with gains. From Californian condo-owner to failed emigrée to middle class nomad and eventually (I hope) once again a home cook in my own kitchen, the way I see myself has undergone change after change after change over the past 6 months while who I am remains the same. I am now grafting an older, senior me onto the root stock of my younger sense of self. The process is working, but it is taking time for the senses of self to knit together.
For the moment, I’m considering whether I’ve lost more than I’ve gained, since I’ve had to give up my plan to be an expatriate. What I’ve gained in security, comfort, and friends by returning to the US I’ve lost in dreams and confidence. Hudson has enough of the pleasures of Paris, albeit on a much smaller scale — very good restaurants, excellent and equally expensive food shopping, beautiful environment — to make up for the lack of French unpasteurized cheese and foie gras. It helps that Hudson’s pleasures are all within walking distance of my front door. I miss the outdoor cafés and the places of Paris, but now that the weather turning warm, people are out on the streets and the restaurants will soon put out seating on the sidewalks again. I don’t miss Paris. I miss only the dream of living in Europe.
My eyes are adjusting to the light of contracted horizons. In my twenties, I began to dream of living overseas, mainly for the experience of learning another language. I majored in French as an undergraduate, but I didn’t really swoon with love for a language until I learned some modern Greek. Over 4 of the 9 years I lived in Toronto, I was married to a Greek citizen. We spent summers in Greece, during which I learned his language well enough to get by. I regret the separation from the language more than from the husband (nice man though he was). Thereafter, for the next 12 years, I spent working summers in Italy, which brought me the closest I’ve ever come to low-level fluency. Then, in the first decade after 2000, an errant interest in 19th century American expatriates in France lured me away from Italy. But ease in French eluded me. I moved on to Spanish about four years ago. Unfortunately, I have never been able to spend more than 3 months abroad each year. Not enough time to really embed myself in another language.1 Now, I am facing for the first time the realization that, just six months shy of 70, my dream is unlikely to remain unfulfilled.
A linguistic gadfly, I function best in those languages, including medieval Latin, when reading them. To read Elena Ferrante, Colombe Schneck, Xavier Marias, or Vergil, for that matter, in their own languages is a consolation prize devoutly to be wished in exchange for moving to Europe. I live in Europe and Latin America vicariously through books. My classicist friend Emily and I will go on meeting online to wrestle our way, line by gorgeous line, through the Aeneid. Time travel has replaced the more mundane transatlantic kind. Of course, I will resume transatlantic travel in later 2026 and create linguistic mayhem wherever I go. Reluctantly or not, though, I will always have to come home.
Nevertheless, a sense of loss tugs at my mood from below in other, more palpable ways. On March 1st, I returned to Hudson so exhausted and frazzled that I had trouble remembering where I put the things I didn’t take with me back to Paris to close up my life there. I know I left here a bag of precious possessions, but I can’t find it. And then, one of the three boxes I sent from Paris has yet to arrive. I sent two boxes to friends in England to keep for me. The one I sent to Hudson, containing two of the ceramic bowls I posted about, is now stuck in France. Just the other day, I learned by email that it hasn’t left France, although I mailed it six weeks ago. More ominously, the email asks for an address to return the box to.
The feeling of loss in me was aggravated by a fall. Last week, combining exercise with chores, I put on comfortable walking shoes, shoved Billie in her dog-sling and started on the 2-mile walk to the UPS store to pick up a box delivered there for me. On the way back, I tripped on the stub of a large sawed-off privet root, fell straight forward and landed half on Billie, half on a gravel patch. My chin slammed into the small cardboard box I was carrying. My palms dug into the gravel like landing gear. Shaken but relieved I hadn’t squashed the life out of Billie, I staggered slowly and painfully to my feet. A passer-by asked if I was okay. People in cars looked concerned. I limped on. And cried.
So, this is what it is to be an old woman, I thought. This is what it felt like to be perceived as someone living on the margins. I saw myself, wearing sneakers, grey sweat pants, long-sleeved teeshirt, and a down vest, walking around town. It was shocking to feel myself revealed in that spotlight, on the ground, bruised, and old. But I feel no older than 50! I want to stay 50 forever. How did I get here? The shock of the fall drove home the contingent nature of life.
I trekked on, pulling myself together en route. I stopped in stores to chat with employees who know me and greet me — well, it’s Billie they want to see and feed treats to. I bought some ginger and a little ground pork at The Meat Hook, and then headed back to the apartment. By the following morning, I had a fat lip at one side of my mouth, bruises under my left arm, a broad patch around my elbow and a long, lateral streak of discoloration under my left clavicle. I remained shaken for a couple of days.
I am, however, buoyant by nature. Nothing promotes buoyancy in me like a new toy, especially a large one. When I thought I would be an expat living in a country with superb public transportation, I looked forward to giving up my car. Marooned in my homeland, without either home or wheels, I began to feel confined. It’s hard to get by without a car outside of Manhattan.
Yesterday, I took joyful possession of a used 2025 Subaru Outback. Playing around with Apple CarPlay brightened the day even more. I spent the first 15 mins bossing Siri around, sending texts, playing music, and asking for directions. Gadgets, I love gadgets. Today, Billie and I rolled through the countryside, parking and walking around the park at Olana for the first time since last fall, stopping at MX Morningstar Farm, my favorite farmstand, and then on to Churchtown Dairy for some delicious cheese.
Big road trips are ahead of us. On April 6, with Billie in her basket set on a secured jump seat, I will set off in the direction of New Orleans, where I will remain until late July. After all the upheaval of the past few months, I look forward to the drive down through the South and to spending four months in my favorite US city, probably the closest I will ever come to spending more than 3 months in a French city. For a few months, I will live in a city where White Lily flour and boudin are easily procured. I am looking forward.
However, I have a goddaughter whose good secondary education released her innate linguistic gifts without her ever spending much time outside England.
Sally, this may be your best Substack post yet. (There are several sentences I feel called to jot down in a notebook, as they capture the specific pathos of aging in a manner I’ve not yet seen.) Brava.
This is lovely Sally, I want to have the first paragraph embroidered on a pillow. Having just retired in January, I am aware of entering a time of both expanded and diminished possibilities.
One opportunity I am looking forward to is spending time with my son at his forest retreat in Ulster County. Perhaps we can meet for lunch in Hudson or thereabouts later this summer. I expect to be there a week or two in Aug and another week or two in Sep/Oct.