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OLD AGE WAS A FOREIGN COUNTRY. SO WAS FRANCE-Ch. 23
The Emotional Cost of Moving to France
I’d started a new chapter, found a life I loved. My family’s visit reminded me what it could not replace
“I can’t believe you don’t like this place,” Carolyn said on the first night of their visit. “It’s so cute.”
From the couch where my daughter sat with her husband, Bill, she glanced around the dungeon. Candles were lit, lights twinkled on the tiny tree I’d bought. Plants, cushions, half a dozen rugs and carpets over the concrete floors — I had to agree the accumulated effect had rendered the dungeon almost unrecognisable.
I didn’t remark on the lack of daylight; by morning, they would discover that for themselves.
I sat on a hassock covered with red velvet, one of my Madame Olga makeovers. Between us, the coffee table was filled with cheeses, bread, fruit and charcuterie I thought they’d be likely to eat. No pig’s ears or black sausage.
“I thought of buying foie gras,” I said.
