The dream begins

 This is first in a series of blogs about what it took to move to Europe on a permanent basis.

During the 80s in February my housemate and I took a few days away from Boston to go to Ocean Grove, NJ, an unincorporated one-square mile town that developed from a Christian camp meeting beginning in 1869 when a group of Methodists ministers camped there.

Over the years it developed into a year-round community. Residents didn't own their land, but their homes and those not following the rules were expected to leave the land. 

For many years no cars were allowed to be visible on Sundays, giving a lovely sense of peace as one strolled the streets to the boardwalk past well kept postage-stamp sized gardens.

My housemate's grandparents had left it to her parents who in turn would leave it to my housemate.

Our new Japanese chin pups, Albert and Vixen were with us. We were joined by our Boston neighbors, both anthropologists, who were attending a nearby conference.

As we walked along the boardwalk with the pups, we said how we would love to live in France. It was one of my dreams to be able to live their part time and write then return to the States to work to afford the writing time.

The conversation continued when we returned to the house.

Our anthropologist friend was being offered a golden handshake from Boston University. We figured if we pooled our resources, we could afford to buy a place. We wanted something near mountains and sea.

The non-retiring anthropologist was continuing her research on music and the Lobi tribe in Upper Volta, later to become Burkina Fasso. She would leave in a couple of months. On the way, she and her husband would go through France to search for a place.

In June they departed with their camper and hopes. In those pre-internet days, expensive telephone calls went back and forth as they described different houses. I kept saying "buy" and finally they decided.

She continued on to Africa for her research, he returned to Boston. Later in the summer he and I went to France to sign the papers.

The French have a phrase "Coup de foudre" love at first sight. I fell in love with the village, then mainly French and Catalan people. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker all fulfilled my fantasy. I saw myself writing in the kitchen next to the original fireplace. The house was at least 300 years old.

I even loved the washing machine that took half a lifetime to wash a half of an American-sized load.

What could possible go wrong?