I wasn’t supposed to end up in France. In December 2020, I packed for a three-month trip in Brazil, so I didn’t take my French bank card, the keys to my mom’s apartment, my French SIM card or warm clothing. Good thing I did take my French passport—since Air Canada suspended the São Paulo-Toronto route and made coming back to Canada a hassle, here I am in Nantes, thank you France for letting me in.

Program of my first week as a 38-year-old? Getting a new bank card—mine is in a drawer in Ottawa—, another set of keys, a SIM card, a pair of jeans and a sweater.

Mission accomplished.

I needed to focus on small tasks because I’m… absolutely not picking up where I left off.

This is not your typical “temporarily moving back with parents, expecting three meals a day and plenty of attention.” First of all, it’s one parent since mine split up a couple of years ago. In all fairness, my dad also offered shelter… if I was willing to hitchhike to his middle-of-nowhere new place.

My mom’s place feels unusually quiet. Growing up, there were five of us in a two-bedroom apartment, and these past few summers, we were eight, seven or four minimum with Mark and Feng. This time, it’s just my mom and I, plus my grandmother who lives a five-minute walk from here, and she is alone as well since my grandfather passed away last year. My brother and my (very pregnant) sister are in Paris and they can’t even come over because France’s capital has just entered a four-week lockdown.

My mom is working full time and yes, in person since she’s teaching. I’m trying to help out, may as well since I’m here. I’m doing the grocery shopping, including my grandmother’s. I go back and forth between both apartments and I fix whatever needs to be fixed—appliances, small issues, bad mood.

I’m rediscovering France in the spring. It’s been a while since my last French spring, twenty years actually except for a brief trip in March 2012 when my mom had major surgery—but I barely remember it because I was taking care of her and I was pregnant with Mark.

I’m rediscovering the fact that lovely, old French apartments don’t have central heating.  

I’m rediscovering the fact there’s no unlimited supply of hot water with a small heater tank.

I’m rediscovering “protest season” in France.

Never mind COVID-19 and restrictions, France is actually… pretty entertaining.

I mean, as long as I focus on the moment. As you’ve probably noticed wherever you are, it’s impossible to make plans or predict new developments. Ottawa is back into red-stage territory, whatever that means. Some parts of France are being lockdown, but a special kind of lockdown where chocolate shops can stay open (because of Easter) and people can go out as usual. Nantes is alright for now, not red-stage material.

I don’t have a ticket to Canada and I have no idea how long I’m going to be in France for.

For now, I just have to somehow land on my feet.