Moving to Paris: The Reality Behind the Dream

“We’re moving to Paris!” Exactly 12 months ago, my husband and I announced this news to our friends and family. Responses were positive. I even sensed an air of envy from some. Afterall, Paris is the dream. A city where wine flows like water and dessert is served after every meal.

We did get the occasional: Why Paris? The people are rude. It’s dirty and expensive. To which I would respond: Excusez-moi? I wondered if we were talking about the same Paris, with its tall, sparkly tower, picture perfect corner bistros, and romantic language.

Speaking of language, unless you count being able to mutter, “l’addition, s’il vous plaît,” after a couple glasses of Burgundy, I was far from fluent. While I thought my high school French would be the main challenge of moving to Paris, it was just the start. As it turns out, when you look beyond the Instagram filter, Paris remains a lovely city, but also a lonely one.

If you aren’t willing to change your expectations, you might live your expat dreams scrolling social media while eating overpriced Pierre Hermé macarons in your tiny Parisian apartment. At least, that’s what happened to me.

Harsh Realities

I was the definition of a Francophile. I got married in Paris, celebrating my love for my husband and also the City of Light. From the moment I tasted my first croissant au beurre and walked along the perfectly imperfect cobblestone streets of Paris at age 12, I knew I wanted to make it my home.

After arriving, I struggled with the language barrier. Between my intensive French lessons and working on my travel website, I found myself frantically googling “English directions for a French oven,” or using my hands to communicate with my building’s concierge, whose English was worse than my French. At 5,000 miles away from home, I lacked a common language and experience with my fellow Parisians. I was alone. Sure, I had my husband, who fully shared the Paris expat dream with me. But the lack of friends or a larger community left a hole in my life.

I wanted to prove that making French friends isn’t as hard as some people claim. My love affair with Paris stretched beyond the charm of the city itself and to the people.

In all my years of visiting, I rarely encountered an aloof Parisian and I admired their way of life. But after spending the summer chasing this friendship goal, awkwardly smiling at groups of people in cafes, I felt like a permanent tourist. I dreaded leaving my 35 square meter apartment. If I even made it out to a yoga class, I could only nervously state my name at the front desk, fearing someone would peg me as an American. My usual extroverted self had disappeared.

You always hear people talking about things just clicking. In my case, I felt the click not with the language, but with the whole city. I decided to stop waiting around for Paris to accept me. It was time to accept Paris. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t fit in, but rather I wasn’t trying to find my community.

To change this, I signed up for expat meetups, reached out to friends of friends, and started saying yes to every invitation or email introduction that came my way. Before I knew it, spring arrived. Our weekends started filling up with dinner parties and picnics along the canals. I had a weekly yoga and brunch date. We even booked weekend getaways with friends. Yes, you read that right: friends! Some of which were even French! After 11 months, several life lessons, a bruised ego, and a couple kilos gained, I finally found myself living a happy expat life.

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