
I Left Los Angeles for Rural France. Now a Twenty-Minute Drive Feels Far.
I used to have about eight commutes a week and called it a life. My neighbor assumed a trip to Ikea meant staying the night.
An American in the French countryside, restoring a centuries-old château and writing the real story, from renovation decisions to culture shock, with a little magic at the edges.
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I used to have about eight commutes a week and called it a life. My neighbor assumed a trip to Ikea meant staying the night.

Downton Abbey made it look like breakfast in bed and a bell for the maid. Here's what it's actually like, hour by hour, in a 300-year-old French castle with no staff but us.

The banks empty out, the pool guy vanishes, and an entire country walks into the sea. Notes from an American's third real summer of les vacances.

The full before-and-after reveal, the piano that arrived at 104 degrees, and the appliance store that had given up on summer entirely.

We traded fast shipping, cheap convenience, and phone calls that actually work for a harder, better life in rural France.

What a Bastille Day in France undid in me, after years of chaotic Fourths in California.

They arrived at 2 and 4 with no French. They came out reading people.

We moved expecting to save money. The truth is stranger, and depends entirely on what you buy.

10 small things about life here that never made it onto the moving checklist (the eggs are just the beginning).

The coach house opens this summer. The pool tried to stop us.