If I were to write a book about living in France, I would call it:
Park Bagatelle.
Chapter One: A Journey to Marseille
If life were to be penned as a tale of adventure and uncertainty, our family's journey to Marseille would undoubtedly find its place in the first chapters. It all began with our young family – my French Husband our three-month-old daughter, and myself. We had spent the first three years of our married life in the heart of Paris.
Fate had its way of orchestrating life's events, leading us to Marseille, a city rich with its unique allure. This relocation was due to my French Husband's job, which beckoned us to embark on a new voyage and create fresh experiences. Little did we know that the weight of sorrow and grief would soon accompany this journey.
We received the heart-wrenching news of French Husband's father's passing within days of our arrival. Our world turned somber, and the echoes of sorrow resonated from Marseille to the distant city of Rennes, where French Husband's family resided. With heavy hearts, we faced the choice of how to make this poignant journey – a long twelve-hour train ride or a longer drive. French Husband decided to take the train, and we decided I would stay behind to manage the disarray of our freshly unpacked home and care for wee Chelsea.
As the shadows of sadness enveloped our lives, I stood amidst a mountain of boxes that filled our tiny apartment, struggling to locate a black tie – an emblem of mourning that had now become a symbol of our connection to the past. French Husband asked me where was his black tie. Looking at the heap of boxes, I waved my hand above them. Unfortunately, it wasn't a magical wand. I sadly replied that his guess was as good as mine. We opened a few without luck. French Husband would later wear a black tie of his father's.
The next morning, French Husband left for ten days.
Feeling sad and alone in a new city where the only soul I knew was a three-month-old baby. I put Chelsea in the stroller and went to the church across the street. There I met an older woman named Madame Guerin; she would become my French connection in the coming weeks (and years). (Also, the priest who years later would marry Chelsea and Martin.)
Madame Guerin did not speak a word of English; I spoke a handful of barely useful words in French. Though that did not deter the enormous sense of compassion, she bestowed towards me. Madame Guerin took me to a nearby park called Bagatelle…
The second person I was to encounter was a delightful English woman named Frances…
Leave a Reply