In 2006, I’d made it. I had the job I’d dreamed of for years. And it was even better than I had imagined it to be.
I had great friends, in all shapes, sizes, colors and sexual orientations.
I had my own place, I had my dog.
Everything was rolling pretty much the way any twentysomething would want.
But… (and there always is one, isn’t there?)
I’d had this crazy dream. Ever since I was seven years old. I’d annoyed my parents to no end about this one thing that seemed so impossible, so unlikely.
I wanted to live in Paris.
My parents, the yuppies that they were, saw fit to enroll their only child in a private school. For whatever reason, I signed up for the French class, not the Spanish one. And there, I fell in love for the first time.
Who knows if it was just my age, or the subject, or the teacher – perhaps this is where my ardent passion for supporting and respecting the teaching profession comes from – but I went completely nuts for French language and culture.
Fast forward nearly two decades and I realize that I am about to get really comfortable with my life. I started looking at condos to buy. And the great-catch bachelors were circling.
But this dream was still there. I’d forget about it from time to time, though it hadn’t forgotten me.
So, I did the only thing I could. At the super-awesome-oh-my-god-I-hate-you-how-are-you-so-young-and-have-such-a-position job, I gave my notice. I recinded my offer on the condo.
And I bought a one-way ticket for me and the dog.