Chapter 4: Blog Series – Our French Adventure

 

En Famille — Or How to Convince Your Kids You’re Not Crazy

There comes a moment in every parent’s life when you realize that your children have quietly taken over the role of the sensible ones. This revelation usually happens right around the time you decide to buy a farmhouse in rural France.

We had just come across a little house for sale that looked promising, a chance we didn’t want to miss. “We’ll go en-famille!” I declared with conviction, trying to make it sound like a vacation rather than a midlife whimsy. But our daughters weren’t buying it.

“Why France? Why a farmhouse? You’re not country bumpkins! You don’t even like farming!” they said, with a mixture of disbelief and mild panic.

To be fair, they had a point. We are not exactly rustic types. Still, I was determined. The house was in France, France! And the idea of an adventure felt irresistible.

Their counteroffer: “Why not Vermont or Maine? Same pastoral vibe, but you’ll be closer to us!” Valid arguments, yes. But what they didn’t understand was that it wasn’t about proximity or practicality. It was about possibility. France had called, and we were answering, even if our daughters thought we were having a “senior life crisis.”

Planes, Passports, and Parenthood — A French Affair

Fast forward four days, and we were in full travel mode. Flights booked. Bags packed. Spirits high. Our little French expedition was ready to begin!

The plan: I’d fly with Eleni, our eldest daughter and self-appointed “family manager,” along with her six-month-old baby, Arianna. Our younger daughter, Georgie, architect and Francophile, would meet us in Paris. What could possibly go wrong? Well. Everything.

Just hours before our flight, Eleni made a shocking discovery: the baby’s passport was missing. After a frantic search, we realized it was safely tucked away in my son-in-law Tim’s, work briefcase, which, unfortunately, was in another state. With Tim. On a business trip.

Cue the chaos.

Eleni, ever the problem solver, insisted I go ahead while she arranged for the passport to be overnighted. “Go, Mom! I’ll catch up tomorrow!” So off I went, solo to France, muttering to myself about midlife madness, international mail services, and the fine line between determination and delusion.

Georgie met me in Paris, and together we rented a car and set off for the countryside. 

Two women on a mission, both convinced that somewhere in the rolling fields of France, our dream house was waiting.

Coucou from Vertenay — Falling for a French Farmhouse

The moment we drove through the gates of the hamlet, Vertenay, a name that already sounded poetic, I could feel it. The house didn’t just stand there; it spoke. “Coucou!” it seemed to say (that’s “hello” in French, and somehow, it fit perfectly).

The farmhouse was modest, more so than many we’d seen, but utterly full of charm. 

It sat among a cluster of six houses, surrounded by open fields and a patch of forest that gently hugged the property with two barns, and the soft hum of the countryside.

    

“This might be the one,” I whispered. 

I called my husband, Wolf, who was back home, and told him he needed to come. “You have to see this for yourself,” I said. He trusts my instincts, but this was a decision we had to make together, our dream, our next chapter.

Eleni would arrive later, baby in tow, excited despite having to make the trip alone with the baby, but as dependable as ever as the family manager, ensuring we didn’t lose our heads completely. 

And as we stood there, the French sun dipping low behind our maybe-new farmhouse, I realized: this wasn’t a crisis. It was an adventure, the start of something truly magnifique.