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Moving abroad wasn’t some master plan I had in my twenties.
Like most Americans at the time before 911, my travel experience was limited to what didn’t require a passport or much planning.
I’d hit Mexico, drive up to Canada, and even made it out to Hawaii, which for a kid from Connecticut like me, felt about as exotic as Bali.
It wasn’t until my late 20s that I finally got on a plane to Europe.
France was the destination, and to say it messed with my head would be putting it mildly.
The food, the pace, the way people lingered over a mid-week lunch like it was a birthright.
That trip cracked something open.
Suddenly, “Wouldn’t it be cool to live abroad someday?” turned into “Why am I still paying rent in…
