The Stranger Across the Aisle – III

The perfect home, all things French, and an improbable sign posted over the city hall door.

<< Previous Chapter

Columbus couldn’t have prepared for his new world adventure with greater deliberation than Melanie picked out our home for the year. Although the house was rented sight-unseen from Seattle, my wife painstakingly sifted through hundreds of French rental homes online, sitting at her computer desk in the kitchen, calling me in from the other room so I could watch impatiently as her JPEGs loaded, and grumble over her shoulder at blurs of patio geraniums, red tile work, brass cookware, and cracked wooden beams in the bedrooms.

Sometimes I would nod and agree and get back to whatever I was doing. Other times I’d volunteer a helpful “I hate it” and, completely undaunted, she’d want to know why I hated it because how could you “hate” this beautiful living room? Look at those iron curtain rods. Who could hate those? They’re beautiful. But wait a second, there’s a better picture. Hang on. Don’t go. Wait. She’d scold the Internet for loading her pictures so slowly because she k…