I think I always knew, somewhere, somehow, that I would end up living in France.
When my oldest brother took a year of French in high school, I looked at that book whenever I could (I was about 8) and I tried to get him to teach me what he learned in class. A few years later, we got a book with a two page photo spread and description of every country in the world. My two favorites were France and Nepal. France for the descriptions of the food and wine and fashion and perfume and Nepal for the pictures of a woman on her wedding day with gold dust stencils on her skin. Gold dust. Wow.
In high school, I finally got to take French class myself, and I loved it. I think I irritated most of the people in the class because I was such an eager beaver about it.
My first year at university I continued studying it. And then. In August of that year, I sold my VW Bug and bought a one-way ticket to Paris. I was 17. I knew no one in Paris. But I went anyway, alone, except for my textbook grammar. My poor mother. Anyway, I went back home after 3 months when money and my tourist visa ran out. But I loved it and knew I would be back to stay.
10 years later, nearly to the day, I moved back for good. Which is funny, because at certain points during those 10 years, the possibility of ending up here seemed more and more remote. You just never know, do you?