And so it begins: the move to another country, another culture, another dietary regime. In less than three weeks my official designation will become 'trailing spouse', so named because Ann begins her 3 year expatriate posting in France for a Canadian energy company and I am only slightly more important to the process than an extra checked bag. That may sound bad but I couldn't be happier.
The house is almost empty, with most of the contents waiting patiently in a shipping container in Montreal to be loaded on a freighter bound for Bordeaux, and then a truck to Arcachon. Our traumatized cats are currently sharing the cozy two-bedroom apartment with the three of us, wondering when we're going home, and blissfully unaware of the trans-Atlantic nightmare awaiting them on July 5th. That being said, I envy their inability to feel anxiety about the future. Two months of French lessons have left me believing the old adage about old dogs learning new tricks. Exactly how old does the dog have to be?
Our 14 year-old daughter Perri will be following us later in July after a required two-week stint at camp Chief Hector. Grandma will pick her up, de-louse her, get her to the Katie Perry concert with her friends, then drop her into the loving arms of Air Canada to be delivered eventually to Bordeaux.What could go wrong?
That being said, there are still a few loose ends to be tied before we can shed this North American coil. Who knew a Volvo wagon could resist being sold with such determination. In retrospect, perhaps the automatic transmission option might have been a good idea.
More to come...