In my dream life, I transition seamlessly from one life, one continent and one country to another. The journey alone—12 hours on a plane, six hours on a bus, and, hell, even a mere three hours on a boat—is enough to switch languages and cultures. Watch me in my usual travel uniform, backpack, worn-out good-luck T-shirt and all, ready to start new adventures kilometres away! Look at me—the time difference doesn’t even affect me!
Yeah. Like I said, in my dream life.
Watch me, watch my terrible selfies taken out of boredom and in a lame attempt to document the journey. I don’t have the travel-influencer glow, just dark circles under my eyes and a forced smile on my lips. I’m tired, I was sick on the boat, the bus arrived hours late, the plane was a very uncomfortable tin can where everything came with a price tag—I chose the lowest fare, and I have cramps in my legs.
I don’t start new adventures effortlessly. Of course, they are always rewarding at some point, or else I would have stopped travelling a long time ago. But like with new shoes, the first steps upon arriving are a bit uncomfortable and weird. Sometimes, a short walk is all it takes to feel better—and sometimes, it takes days to embrace the trip and the destination.
It should have taken exactly one step on French soil to adapt. I was there just two months ago. Hell, I am French. But I can’t seem to relax just yet.
I have no excuse. On paper, it’s perfect. This is the kind of trip Americans would go into even more debt for. Sure, it’s Nantes again, but it’s a great place to be in summer, with a lot going on, several amazing beaches just an hour away by train, and an overall festive vibe because the French take summer and holidays very seriously.
The sun is shining, it’s hot, and yes, I’m happy to be here.
But for some reason, I’m stressed out—and feeling stressed out is stressing me out because I feel like I’m missing out on some non-stressed-out time.
It’s not just travel fatigue, either. It’s existential “what the fuck did I build my life on?” fatigue.
I’m a bit defeated, I think. It’s been a tough year. Again, on paper, everything is fine—or as good as it gets for 2026. The U.S. has yet to invade Canada, I still have clients and some work, Mark and Feng are doing okay-ish, and I travelled. The fine print is that everything is harder than it should be. I’m literally working twice as much for half as much money, with half as many clients. The cost of living keeps rising in Canada, and we cut out all luxuries, even some non-luxuries—hell, I’ve just spent the past two months eating rice and canned tuna in a fucking developed country.
I’m constantly worried. I thought I would make it. Twenty-five years ago, I opted out of the French artist life and reluctantly embraced North American capitalism for lack of a better option. It worked for me for over a decade. And now I’m realizing that, once again, I’m caught in a ruthless system where playing by the rules isn’t rewarded.
I’m tired.
It shows.
And my brain just can’t stop worrying. I feel powerless in this world, irrelevant in this society, and overall not good enough—because what have I accomplished in life at 43, really?
Happy thoughts, I’m telling you.
Meanwhile, I have to make the most of the summer because, again, I opted out of the French artist life, so hiding on a wind-battered Breton island to make art and curse society isn’t an option. Oh, and I’m also trying to sell Mark on a disconnected life—okay, not fully disconnected, but minimal Internet.
So I decided to go with the flow and the must-do summer activities because maybe happiness and blissful carelessness are contagious—although I suspect the French would be a lot less happy without booze, and unfortunately for me, I don’t drink.
We went to the beach. It was still quiet on Friday before the big holiday rush, and it was lovely.
We went to the annual Voyage à Nantes art festival. This year, opening night fell on a Saturday, right in the middle of the Morocco-Canada FIFA World Cup game. Half of the city was nibbling on fancy appetizers in makeshift food halls citywide, while the Moroccan community—quickly joined by Guineans, Cameroonians and basically anyone who had decided that Morocco was playing for all of Africa that night—threw an impromptu victory party.
Then the city stopped when France started playing Paraguay, and erupted again at 1 a.m. when France won.
It’s quieter tonight, time to nurse the hangover, I suppose… and Brazil sure isn’t partying.
I hope I can shut down my brain this week and embrace the summer.
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