There’s no place like gone

A friend asked me at a party if there’s anywhere in the world I dream of living. I couldn’t answer. To visit, yes, but not to live. I should have told the truth: I dream of living nowhere.

That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the comforts and conveniences of our base in Montpellier, but nothing fires me up like the idea of moving forward in a line and not boomeranging back to a fixed point.

Oh, and we’ve been more anchored than usual lately. Our passports went awol. We sent them away, with much trepidation I might add, to the embassy in Paris for renewal. La Poste lost them on the return. 2 months later, I’m ecstatic to report they’re been found. They’re not in hand yet, but they’re safely back at the embassy where we will soon pick them up. The uncertainty has been surprisingly stressful, not that we had imminent travels plans. It would have eventually been solved, on way or another. But it threw me for a loop, knowing I couldn’t leave at the drop of a hat. I’m a cat who wants the door open. I might not want to go out, but I sure want to know that I can.

Add to that our open application for our 10 year residency cards. More unsettled waiting. When might we get them? Only the gods and the prefecture can say, and none of them are exactly known for being forthcoming.

The idea of a big scram, of escape, lodges in the brain, bit by bit. A wild hair here, a notion there, it creeps in. Then the idea of leaving finds a toehold and niches in, until it’s the resting state, the filter through which every else is seen. This time, it started with the idea of a fresh passport. So many pages to fill! The residency card, ostensibly a sign of commitment, of settling and immersion, signals to me permission to leave. Our yearly cards had a rhythm of renewal. A tethering. Now a new seed has been planted. We could leave for up to two years continuously and not be in violation of our residency. Not that I want to, need to, or am planning to be away that long, by any stretch. But I like to contemplate such a thing. I like to think of possible futures, not necessarily probable ones. To entertain those notions.

Right now, we’re in Brittany, in Finistère, which means the end of the earth. It’s the westernmost point of mainland France, a jumping off point to inflame the imagination. Once our residency has been settled, we’re thinking of heading west, continuously, until we arrive back east. Around the world. It’s all speculation and questioning at this point. I’m asking, what if, and the answer is coming back, why not?

Happy trails to you!

Maer