Something serious happened to me last weekend. I went down South for a wedding and fell in love.
We went to Toulouse for a Franco-Irish wedding celebration and left with much more than we anticipated. The groom’s mother, rocking an indecipherable but spirited accent, gave all the guests from Paris a little gift bag with violet jam, honey and liquor – all local specialties. Though a sweet, unexpected gesture, it wasn’t the violet treats that were most surprising.
No, what we didn’t foresee was just how enchanted we would be by Toulouse’s southern charm, cobblestone streets, picture-perfect pastel buildings and the emblematic brick architecture that gives the city its “ville rose” moniker.
Of late, the recurrent point of contention between my husband and I has been the issue of mobility. As shocking and unfathomable as it may sound, the time will inevitably come when he will have had enough of Paris. Enough of the noise, pollution and Parisians, of course, but also enough of the 1.5 hour commute he has maintained for six years. He already speaks of wanting to experience someplace new which, for someone like myself whose identity is deeply connected to France, puts me almost immediately on the defensive.
What…
