I Could Live Here.
Morning View on the Terrace
Filling in the blank…
In 2016 JB and I purchased a “pied-à-terre” in France. Despite being half Italian, a writer, and an incurable romantic, it was not an “Under the Tuscan Sun” sudden whim. My very grounded and pragmatic husband can always be counted on to temper starry-eyed impulses. However, during decades of European travel the mantra of “I could live here ___” (fill in the blank) was frequently mused by both of us over glasses of Bordeaux, Montepulciano, and Gewurztraminer.
For years we thought Switzerland would fill the blank, but cultural, visa, and financial barriers proved insurmountable. As we gradually spent more time in France, the more we discovered its astounding natural beauty and “joie de vivre.” But if France was to fill the blank, on what little piece of earth should we plant our feet? We loved Paris but wanted a balance of urban amenities and pastoral pleasures in a climate more like the Mediterranean than the British Isles. We briefly contemplated Bordeaux after spending a few days there in route to a seaside vacation in Biarritz, further south on the West Coast. To this day we enjoy visiting wine centric Bordeaux (and still think we could have lived there) but something just did not connect with us at the time. In truth, we could probably have thrown a dart at the map of France to make our choice and not be disappointed, but neither of us are quite that free spirited.
Flirting with France…
Our first forays into seriously viewing French properties began on a summer vacation in the “Côte d’Azure.” I quickly became enamored with the small town of Antibes just a short train or car ride from Nice. Its magnificent rocky perch on the sea, resplendent in magical Mediterranean light, is where Picasso created his “La Joie de Vivre” on canvas and formed remarkable ceramics from local clay. Sadly, our ideal cash budget would only render a postage-stamp sized apartment. We also feared that living in a popular tourist destination might not offer real day-to-day French life. A later November visit confirmed our concern. The previously lively village was now in sleepy hibernation; restoration of yachts the only buzz of activity. This was clearly not a service we were seeking. Despite that harsh reality, I think I will always secretly harbor a crush for that particular pocket of paradise.
At JB’s suggestion we also spent a week that November in Pau, a small city in the Southwest of France that we had passed through twice previously while chasing the Tour de France. The birthplace of King Henri IV, Pau is proudly poised on a natural “balcony” with sweeping views of the Pyrenees Mountains that form the boundary between Spain and the Southwest of France and stretch from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea. Its lively mountain-sourced river, flanked by miles of cycling and foot paths, eventually slips along with the mountains into the Atlantic Ocean.
Neither of us originally had this “gateway to the Pyrenees” on our radar, but with our focus now squarely on the city rather than the mega sporting event, it seemed an obvious fit. Like Boston, it had the vitality of a university city yet steeped in history (one stretching back many more centuries than its comparatively young New England counterpart). It had an airport and train station for ease of access. Its location appealed to my husband’s love of cycling and my magnetic pull toward the sea. Many of the mountain passes regularly battled in the Tour de France are within daily striking distance while quintessential sea-side towns with long stretches of golden sand lay just an hour west on the Atlantic Coast.
Getting Serious…
Upon our return to Boston, JB emailed our interest in viewing properties to several “immobiliers” in Pau. Luckily, the only agent who responded proved to be a great realtor and friend. During two long hunts several months apart, Jerome’s English language skills and wicked humor were considerable assets. I’m unfortunately a terrible shopper; driven by a very distracting need to see every possible option “just in case…” The range of properties varied in size (from 70 to 250 square meters), style (from centuries old to modern), and condition (from cosmetic fixes to gut renovations).
Much to Jerome’s and JB’s relief I finally came to the brilliant conclusion that one of the earliest apartments we saw, and which Jerome believed was best for us from the start, was “the one.” The seventh-floor condo (referred to as the sixth floor in Europe, ground level being zero) in a late 1970s apartment complex, was modern enough to offer elevators, a large terrace, and garage parking. The apartment’s panoramic view of the Pyrenees Mountains had coyly hidden in clouds on our first visit, but on our return for a second viewing were boldly resplendent.
The stunning view made it easy to overlook the faded brown carpet, granny wallpaper on every surface (including ceilings and doors!), school bus colored kitchen cabinets, and mauve bathroom suite that would require a seven-month renovation. Located on the outer edge of the city’s hyper-center, the building is nestled in a quiet gated garden where a church once stood. It is a mere 10-minute walk to “Les Halles” where local fish, cheese, meats, fruit, vegetables, and baked goods are gorgeously displayed for purchase daily and where side streets lined with cafés and boutiques beckon every budget. For basic essentials, a small “Super Marché” is just two blocks away and the requisite “boulangerie” a quick dash to the end of the block.
“Moitié, Moitié…
For the next five years we spent as much time in Pau as possible without a Visa (limited to 90 days within any 180-day period) while still working in the US. These years gave us time to assess more fully what it would be like to live in Pau, to make new friends, and begin the ongoing struggle to learn French.
During this half and half (moitié, moitié) period, Pau and the French lifestyle gradually began to feel more like home than Boston. The pandemic year amplified the call toward living in France full time. While JB used early retirement to complete our final Boston renovation and I began a two-year transition of my business to a dear colleague and friend, the ties to Boston continued to unwind. Simultaneously, JB managed the arduous application process for long-stay Visas; the final catalyst to sell our Boston home, ship our belongings overseas, and become expats.
Growing roots…
Eight years down the road of owning the property and two years of expatriation, we are blessed with kind neighbors who have become “tutoyer” friends; a coveted status in French culture achieved when conversational references for “you” shift from the formal “vous” to the more intimate “tu.” We couldn’t be happier with our decision to become expats, despite its many challenges.
Overtime, our renovation era motto of, “no kids, no pets, no plants” has been slightly modified. There still are no kids: that ship sailed too long ago. There are still no pets: Pau is currently the frequent launch pad to a long bucket list of travel destinations. But there are finally plants. Perhaps the commitment to nurturing their roots indicates we are finally growing our own here in Henri IV’s “paradis sur terre.”
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