When Jayne Tuttle came home for Christmas after a decade and a half abroad, it was never meant to be permanent. Her daughter had other plans
Fifteen years ago I left Melbourne for Paris, grieving my mother’s death and finding unexpected solace in the unfamiliarity of the wild and wonderful 10th arrondissement. A French theatre school, a Frenchman … I made a home inside the thrill of the differences, the frustrations and complications, the visa dilemmas and renting difficulties.
Life there as a student and later a wife (not to the French guy) was drunk with adventure, wandering the streets from sunrise to sunset, living hand to mouth off music and acting gigs, jobs at the track, voiceovers, translations, teaching English to businessmen. When, years later, our daughter swam into a Paris bathtub, though we were both Australian, we were determined to continue our life there as normal. But we soon realised the choice wasn’t only ours.
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