I don’t daydream. Matter of fact, I don’t nightdream, either. But I find my brain subsumed, taken over by a symbiotic fantasy. Paris.
A letter written, protesting against the questions, buts, what ifs and painting a photograph of weekends, mornings, late evenings started my mind stumbling down cobblestones, and now it remains seated at a café, enraptured with the grey weather. My mind, the words on paper, my body and passport scream Do! Go! Do!
And so, despite thick piles of red tape, I think we will.
Instead of remaining steadfast in anti-vaccination, we probably will simply because it’s required in the French school system.
Instead of homeschooling, she might attend four months of French immersion here in Vancouver’s rainy bounty and another four of authentic French immersion in Versailles, and from there, we’ll see.
Instead of finding a little place around the corner, big enough for the two of us and ripe for renovation, maybe we’ll hop across a large body of water and spend a year or more hopping from one furnished home to the next, every three months, living with the books, clothes and cuddly things we love most.
Instead of living within our means, paycheque to support payment, to government cheque, to paycheque, cash won’t burn holes in the pockets of my jeans because we’ll truly live the simple life – cherishing the every day as a new one, exploring, coveting, saving, photographing, creating and being zen.
This daydream is easy to make reality, despite all of the paperwork, costs and efforts. This daydream seems like kismet. This sublimation feels like it’s owed, a chance to be born anew, a thing to chase after.
Paris, we’re coming for you.
