Oh la la! An indulgent post about my love affair with France

Mother Sugar

I was in advanced French in high school, a very green sixteen, when I told my French teacher I was going to live in Paris one day.  She looked down her square rimmed glasses and asked why.  Because I love it there, I answered in text book français.  Have you ever been before?  Mais, non!  Then how do you know you will love it?  I just will, I responded stubbornly.

My first trip to France was later that year, an optional school trip. I’d saved the money to go by tele-canvassing for the liver foundation and working a retail job part time.  When my father found out I was holding down two jobs in my final year of high school, he was so outraged, he coughed up whatever money I was missing.

La Belle France did not disappoint.  The shops were beautiful; all the designers I’d…

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