The diary of someone trying to move to France

“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.”

― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Since traveling to Montpellier in Southern France for my birthday earlier this year, I've had visions of moving there. Living abroad was always a wanderlust dream of mine, the idea of a European vista rooftop apartment, overlooking the tiled tops of the many other lives nesting, creating, and living.

A lifestyle built around casual cafe trips, wine bars, and quiet mornings cast out by the sunshine seems an appealing and steady life. I’m drawn to the romanticism of living abroad, its gentleness, and the opportunities it brings to meet new people, learn new languages, and broaden your perceptions. 

So when we visited the city earlier in the year, with its limestone walls, cute bookshops, cafes, and bubbling nightlife, I was sold. Our apartment was a picture I’ve always dreamed of creating, I was besotted and in love, an obsession I haven’t managed to shift.

Since then, I’ve been in a tailspin of “what should I do?”. Evidently, as enticing as the lifestyle is, practical implications pose a problem. In this post-Brexit world, options seem more limited, and complications arise with permit rights. Although I’m lucky to qualify for an Irish passport, this process could take well over a year, and I’m itching to find myself there sooner. It just feels right. 

So, overpassing these obstacles I decided to start at the very basics. Finding a job. I dug out my old hospitality CV from the archives of my life and, with the help of my partner’s sister-in-law, I translated the entire thing into French. I designed it in a funky kind of way, and attached a smiley photo of myself on a sunset evening at Primrose Hill for effect. I booked my flight to Montpellier and printed 50 copies of my compétences.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that once you start pursuing a dream, everything works in your favour to achieve it. However, this isn’t without its challenges, and almost immediately I started encountering problems. 

When I went to check into my flight a few days before the trip, I realised I had booked an entirely wrong week. Not only was I working on those dates, but I had a writing retreat to attend from the day I flew back. I spoke to the airline about amending them, but it cost less to buy new flights, and it was too far after my booking to request a refund. Not only this but as luck would have it, two days before flying, I got too drunk and left my phone in a taxi. I haven’t lost a phone since my graduation days, where dropping it in toilets, clubs or onto the tarmac in Berlin leaving it shattered into a thousand pieces, were all common in my idgf era. 

Thankfully, I was able to locate and track my phone from my laptop. But with 24 hours until my flight, I didn’t have time to wait for a response to my application telling them I could see my phone traveling up the M23. 

So, no choice but to buy a temporary phone and number, which I sheepishly wrote onto my printed CVs with a biro. As if it wouldn’t be hard enough to persuade the French to hire me.

Skip forward and I make my flight, Samsung in hand, and the next day I embark on finding a job! The responses were mixed, mostly depending on how well I memorised my line “excuse-moi, est-ce que vous embauchez”, which means, “are you hiring”? Either they wouldn’t understand me at all, or too well, and start speaking entirely in French which was received by a blank expression and a smile. Otherwise, complete miscommunication, where a server pointed at the menu as he heard ‘manger’ (eat) rather than ‘embauchez’. Gulp. 

One I won’t forget: when I went into an empty cafe and repeated my line.

For what? He asked. Barista? I said. For who!? He cried. Do you see anybody here!? He then launched into a monologue about how I would never find a job here, nobody would hire me, the tax is too high, and he lived in London once so he knows that. And never open a coffee shop here either because it will fail. Double gulp. 

But, I carried on meandering through the sunny streets, feeling the pressure and the heat on my back, but also the lightness of being somewhere beautiful and new. And then, I caught a fish in the name of an Irish pub who requested an interview that day. Hurrah! I was filled with the anticipation that I might have found my ticket in.

I met with the guy, proudly explained my Irishness, and how I held an official certificate for pouring Guinness at the factory in Dublin. I explained my family members were from the city and that I was looking to relocate. 

Do you have your Irish passport, he asked. 

Well not yet, but there’s quite a long process to get all my documents together and it could take a while…

He seemed to echo the man in the empty cafe by reiterating that, with the current visa requirements and taxes, hiring me would mean a lot of paperwork for them. But he will consider me.  I reminded him to contact me on my temporary number and I watched him retreat backward like Homer in the hedge. 

For the remainder of the trip, I enjoyed my time there with my boyfriend's family. The beach, wine, and a few meals out. On my last day, I circled back to a few places that seemed friendly to confirm my interest and even spoke to the owner of a cafe, who it turned out was from Manchester. We bonded over our shared love for the city back home, but equally how much he loved life in Montpellier. He was friendly - but didn’t seem interested in hiring me. 

Then, in the lunchtime heat, the last thing I did before wrapping up my trip - crucially - was head to another one of Montpellier’s vibrant Irish pubs, The Shakespeare.

It wasn’t opening until the evening, so I took out my CV and crammed it between the crack of the doors, the hopeful smile from my profile still visible from the street.

Two weeks later, I received an email.