Sharon Harrigan

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Off We Go

Tomorrow we board a plane from Charlottesville to begin our one-year sojourn in Paris.

I’m in an enviable position. I know this because people keep telling me.  Oh la la, how they wish they could come, too. Or, as my MFA thesis advisor said, when I complained about not winning a writing contest, “Buck up. You know how many people would cut off their right arms to trade places with you? Or how many want to cut off both of your arms?” It’s strange to be the object of envy. Really? You want to be like me? What I want is to be brilliant like you.

The last time I lived in Paris, I was only twenty years old, one of a legion of college students doing our junior year abroad. I brought a check for $1700, to cover six months expenses. That was a long time ago, but even with a maid’s room for $250 (seventh floor walk-up, Turkish toilet in the hall, no shower or stove, and a heater fed with coins), I would have little left over for food.  I’m bringing a little more money this time. The fact that I don’t mention how much is a measure of how privileged (and, yes, enviable) my life has become.

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Paris Journal: Super-Chouette


It’s happening already. We’re still in the one-month countdown before our year in Paris, but the humbling has begun. I don’t expect sympathy, since every time I tell people I’m moving to Paris for a year I cede the right to complain. Everything is “super-chouette.”

My daughter started using that phrase after returning from her two-week French immersion camp. From what I can tell, it means “awesome.” She used to admire my French-speaking abilities so much, she’d say, “I wish I were you.” Now she says, “My counselors were more fluent” and corrects my accent. She was born dressing like a French girl: in skirts, not shorts; with leather shoes, not sports sandals. Her instinct for chic is as mysterious to me as how to use the subjunctive.

Last week I met Lisa, a woman who recently spent two years in Paris. She is fortyish and pretty, svelte and blonde, and a snappy dresser. “You look cute,” I said, admiring her skinny boots and skirt with a bird on it (this was Portland, after all). “You do, too,” she said, “but neither of us look cute enough for Paris.” It wasn’t an insult, just an in-joke.

My husband and I have started receiving invitations for events at our daughter’s new school. The first fundraiser will be a champagne-tasting party at the Czech Embassy. “What fun!” my husband said to me. “What in the world can I possibly wear to that? I said to myself.” I’ll have to ask my daughter, whose French will soon be better than mine—and whose fashion sense already is.