by Beth Arnold
An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.
This column is dedicated to Snapp Morgan—handsome, smart dog about town in both Little Rock, Arkansas, and Paris, France. He was the dearest of dogs, a true friend, a vital member of our family. Snappman, I know your grandmother met you in Heaven with a juicy bone, and you are flying high.
ALMOST AS SOON as we returned to Collioure from Morocco, our 67-year-old landlord informed us that we would have to move out of our garret loft so his latest girlfriend could move in. Even in the spirit of Sowing Late-ish Oats, I couldn’t imagine why he would prefer a romantic arrangement to our good company and the enticing aromas of my cookery drifting down his stairwell (he dined with us quite often). But he did and kicked us out anyway.
As longtime homeowners and newish nomads, we weren’t used to being evicted from our household. But in spite of that shock, this nudge gave us the opportunity to do something I had been wanting the three of us to do anyway—move to Paris!