A year of living, writing, and paying attention —a look beyond the fantasy of France.
While taking a short break from writing during the holidays, I looked at everything I’d written this year across The Barefoot Blogger and French Footsteps. I noticed something unexpected. I wasn’t just documenting travel or offering practical guidance. I was telling the story of my life in France — what drew me here, what challenges me, and what I’ve learned it takes to thrive here.
The writing across both platforms was shaped by the experiences and the emotions I have about living in France — what brought me joy, what stirred sadness, what raised concern, and what continues to surprise me more than a decade after leaving home. The practical guidance and the wandering stories weren’t separate at all. They were two expressions of the same life.
This post is where those threads come together.
When France First Calls
For most Americans, France begins as an idea—beautiful, familiar, yet slightly out of reach.
Early in the year, I wrote about that first pull: the desire to travel and live abroad while my health and energy were still strong. I described the pleasure of slowing down, and the sense that timing matters. At the same time, my attention wandered—back into art and history, to places in France where those two paths collide. I found myself writing about artists in Arles and Saint-Rémy, how Fauvism burst into the South of France, and about Van Gogh’s quiet search for beauty and peace.
That wandering mattered. It reminded me that France isn’t only a place people move to, It’s a place people have come to—again and again—drawn by a need for beauty, refuge, or meaning they hadn’t yet put into words.
When Curiosity Turns Practical
As the year unfolded, curiosity about living in France lead to concrete questions:
How much does life really cost?
Which regions suit different personalities?
What does “retirement” actually look like inside a French system?
Those posts were written to aid others seeking a new life in France. They turned guesswork into confidence. But in between them, my mind kept drifting outward—to landscapes shaped by belief and endurance, to the Cévennes and the long history of resistance embedded in its hills. Writing about customs and legends wasn’t a detour. It was a reminder that France has always been a place where people remake their lives quietly, often under pressure, often against the grain.
That history matters because it gives practical decisions context and depth, shaped by how others endured change before us.
When Daily Life Comes Into Focus
Summer brought the most joyful shift: from planning to living.
The writing settled into everyday France—food, markets, rituals, kitchens, conversations. Why bonjour still matters. Why meals anchor the day. Why certain towns feel welcoming once you stay awhile. I stood roadside as the Tour de France passed through Uzès. I wrote about how to eat oysters, experience lavender fields, and the pleasure of letting travel adventures unfold.
This is where many Americans fall in love with France. And it’s also where I felt most grounded myself.
When France Becomes Personal
Early autumn turned inward.
I wrote about eating alone and making peace with it. About slow travel—escargot pace, by choice. About the freedom of not filling every silence. France offers space—physical and emotional—that many people don’t realize they’re craving until they experience it.
At this stage of life, that space isn’t emptiness. It’s a relief.
When the Question Changes
By late fall, the posts on both French Footsteps and The Barefoot Blogger weren’t just asking where you should live?
They were asking something deeper: How do you want to live now?
That question echoed through reflections on landscape and resilience, on artists who suffered and endured, on places shaped as much by patience as by beauty. France began to feel less like a destination and more like a framework—one that supports deliberate living if you’re willing to meet it halfway.
What This Year Ultimately Revealed
By December, the answer felt calm and unforced.
France works best for Americans who are curious, observant, and willing to pay attention. Not by becoming French—but by noticing how daily life is shaped here. The way meals are eaten. The way history lingers. The way ordinary days are allowed to be enough.
That way of living isn’t restrictive. It’s freeing.
Why This Summary Exists
This year-end post exists to say: If you’re thinking about retiring in France, you don’t need to be fearless. You need to be thoughtful. And if you’re thoughtful about the choice, France can offer something extraordinary — not just a beautiful place to live, but a better way to live day to day.
That’s not a warning. It’s an invitation.
One Response
What you say is so true. We came to France from England forty years ago for my partner’s work. We had no intention of staying permanently but became embodied in the French way of life. We now have French nationality. If you make an effort to fit in everyone is very welcoming. As an aside: when I had my naturalization interview I was asked about what I do with friends. My answer was “eat”!
Thank you for your posts! Uzès is a delightful town.