It’s been a pivotal week concluding an unforeseen five years. Our tiny apartment is packed. My part-time consulting gig is over. Our grandson, Jack, caught a wicked line drive in his baseball game to end the inning.

As it began, so now it shall end. Unexpectedly.

We came to Charlottesville in February of 2019 when Jack was diagnosed with cancer, moved into a 350-square-foot apartment, and waited. A year later, his treatments ended; Covid started; and we waited some more. We embraced the simplicity of closet-free living.

One day on a whim, I took a job and—racked with doubts—told myself that I had to accomplish one valuable thing before I could leave. I figured I’d be gone in three months tops. That was nearly three years ago. 

Now, our landlord’s mother has memory issues and needs our tiny place. She’ll live there with our furniture and our blessing.

We are spending the last two nights in Charlottesville at a hotel. Friday, we will drive to Philadelphia to see our granddaughters. Sunday evening, we fly to Paris. We’ll be back mid-December in time to spend Christmas with these guys.

And then, we’ll set off again. Rinse and repeat.

When we decided to leave Charlottesville, Pat and I made a deal that we wouldn’t entertain a more permanent home for (at least—my addendum) three years. For now, there’s a part-time base awaiting us in Paris and a full-circle moment at hand.

This is exactly what we planned to do five and a half years ago. We would keep Paris but relinquish French residency and hence be forced into a semi-nomadic life. Two weeks before we were to leave Paris, the phone rang. Jack was sick. We flew home the next day.

Here we are, more than five years later, on the cusp of a second chance at our semi-nomadic plan.

Personally, I’d like to transition to a year of full-nomadic life before eventually settling down. I find that I do better when I keep moving. I read more, think more, walk more. The non-nomadic me is a sloth.

But full-nomadic life means that we won’t always have Paris, and I’m not quite ready to accept that.

Yet that day will come.

I love this quote. Think about it. It’s not actually my way or the highway. (Unless, of course, you thought it was a good idea to marry me.) Old age comes in at least 31 flavors. Pick yours.

Once upon a time, I wrote an annual anniversary blog post near the date of our move to Bratislava. It was then when the world in between concept began. Shortly, we will arrive in Paris on exactly the 13th anniversary of that move.

I don’t believe in coincidence; I believe in signs. Withering can wait. Trust me, Pat. The next three years are gonna be awesome. In which case, maybe the next three years, will actually be four …

Categories: Life in Paris, Ruminations

Tags: alternative retirement, Life in Paris, nomadic retirement, the world in between, Unusual retirement options