My ancestral family name is de la Rivière, Of The River. When I traced those ancestors back to the time they arrived in Canada, more than four centuries before this moment, I hardly understood. Of The River. A very straightforward translation. Land owners in Burgundy and further north. Farmers in France at a time when…
With about forty days left before I hit the skies for France, the pace of preparation is picking up. And so are the travel jitters. It’s no mystery that I’m excited for this research trip. Hiding my enthusiasm isn’t a thing. Nor is it something I attempt to muster the capacity to achieve. I let…
I’ve been circling around this concept of slow travel a lot lately. It’s not shocking to anyone who has spent literally even one day with me that I am a bit of a doer. Chilling is not my thing. I’ve got lists and then lists for the lists. I survive on accomplishment alone. It’s my…
Ah, the plight of a Canadian in France. This past Tuesday marked 90 days until I leave. “Three months!” most people say. “You must chill!” “Only three months!” I tell them. “So much to do.” Bring on a wee bit of dramatic arc because, well . . . Our heroine continues to plan her solitary…