Hello from London 🇬🇧

Dispatches from a cross-Atlantic move, obsessing over Martin Short and French women

It’s been a while. Six weeks. Hello again! 

A pic I took on our first day in London. I’d left my jet-lagged family behind at our temporary accommodation to find a grocery store. I ended up at Waitrose. Loved it.

It’s been an eventful end of summer. As mentioned in my last newsletter, my family and I have moved from Montreal to London. That’s London, UK–not London, Ontario. We’ve been in the UK for a little over three weeks now. I’m not settled in yet but at least I’m no longer jet-lagged. It’s been a busy time, between searching for a place to stay and figuring out how to function in this society, like which way to look when crossing the street and how to get a credit card (both impossible).

I’m a weird mix of calm and always feeling like I might throw up. My incessant concern (phobia?) with maybe throwing up is one of the signs that my nervous system is a bit off-centered. I’m also never bloated here, which is interesting. I’m doing the best I can to stay as grounded as possible, which is why I’ve resorted to my beloved coping mechanism of falling in love with a TV character. I’ve just powered through Only Murders in the Building and now fantasize about becoming the female version of Martin Short.

Someone asked me what I looked forward to and dreaded the most about moving to London. I’m excited about stepping outside of my comfort zone. Over the past several years, I’ve developed a codependent relationship with my home, my apartment in Montreal. I like being home. I rarely feel the need to leave it, except when there’s more than one person–me–on the premises. As a writer, however, I recognize the importance of leaving my cocoon and living life. I need experiences to write about. When my husband told me he’d might get transferred to London for work, my initial reaction was “THANK GOD. New writing content.” Remember the expression, doing it for the ‘gram? Well I’m doing it for the ‘stack and the manuscripts. And for the fantastic family adventure, of course.

What I dreaded the most about our move was my son’s transition to a new school in a foreign country. I’ve been so worried about plucking him out of his lovely school in Montreal, and dropping him into unknown territory: a French lycée. London has a very high number of French expatriates. Some people joke that London is France’s sixth-biggest city. This means there are many French schools in London, one of which my son now attends so he can continue his education in French. 

Taking myself out of my comfort zone is something I own and can deal with, but the stakes are higher when you take your kid outside of his comfort zone. I have no control over how he will adapt or react. Will he feel safe there? Will he make new friends? Will French children understand his Quebecois accent? There’s a big difference between Quebecois French and French from France. That’s why French people keep switching to English when I speak to them in French. They don’t realize that I’m a francophone too.

Moa vous dire une affaire, par exemple. J’vais pas changer mon accent pour une cenne. J’viens du Québec pis chu fière de t’ça.

I’m happy to report that my precious angel of a son’s transition to his new school has been going well. There will definitely be challenges ahead, but so far, he’s been surfing the waves of change like a pro. Oh, and before I forget. The rumors are true: French women are gorgeous and have amazing, effortless style. You should have seen what they wore on the first day of school. I thought we were on a runway. I saw clothes I never knew existed. So much elegance, so much poise.

I, on the other hand, looked like a clown with my overworn, burnt orange linen pants. My father, a loyal reader of this newsletter, will be mortified to learn that I’m the kind of parent who usually does school drop-off in pyjamas. I can’t pull that crap here. I really can’t. So now getting ready in the morning has been more stressful than it should be. Having said that, I was relieved when I saw someone at pick-up yesterday wearing a black sweatshirt that read “Dolphins have sex for pleasure” across the chest. That’s why today I felt comfortable enough to show up to school in leggings today.

It’s good to be back. I look forward to connecting with you here and sharing my obsession-inspired essays and interviews with you. I’ll be reactivating paid subscriptions since my Substack hiatus is over. As always, thank you so much for being here and supporting Obsessed: A Newsletter. 

See you next week.