If you’ve read my piece on our two weeks at the Institut de Français — To Be and Not to Be (So Good at French) — you know the broad strokes: six hours of French a day, a bruised ego, and a husband who learned to say “tu es” correctly for the first time in years. What I didn’t get into was the full picture: what it actually costs, where we slept, where we ate, and whether any of it stuck. That’s what this is.

Consider this your practical companion guide.

Let me start with a confession.

I lived in Germany for three years and left without learning German. Not for lack of good intentions — I had plenty of those. But our move turned out to be harder than expected: finding a place to live, medical emergencies, a car accident, unexpected surgeries, two teenage boys finishing high school in a new country after two years of COVID isolation. At some point, survival mode set in and the will to take language classes stealthily evaporated. I decided to do just enough to get by, consoled myself that it was a temporary posting, and kept my eyes on France.

Those three years taught me something important. I was surrounded by German every single day — and I barely improved. Because immersion, on its own, is not a method. It’s just exposure. And exposure without structure mostly teaches you to tune things out.

I arrived in France determined not to repeat that pattern. Language acquisition, I’d decided, was the key to the genuine connection and belonging I was hungering for. Not tourist French. Not “getting by” French. Real French — the kind that lets you argue with a bureaucrat, charm a neighbor, understand what people are saying about you at the market.

The question was how to get there.

Here’s something you probably already know, but I’ll say it again: the best time to start learning French is before you arrive. Take classes, use apps, build a foundation — give yourself something to work with when you land. The second best time is immediately after you arrive. Enroll in something. Make it a priority from day one. That commitment signals to yourself, and to France, that you’re serious about being here.

The third best time is right now. Wherever you are in this process.

And the fourth thing I want to make clear: you will be working on your French forever. That’s not a discouragement — it’s a reframe. French is not a box you check. It’s a practice, like running or cooking. You get better incrementally, and every gain compounds. The goal isn’t fluency as a destination; it’s fluency as a direction.

What I also want to name: you know yourself. Some people can follow a YouTube workout at home and stay consistent. Others need to pay for the gym membership to make it real. Neither is wrong. What matters is that you find the structure that actually works for you and commit to it — because I promise you will never regret a single French lesson you take.

A quick note on levels, because having a concrete goal helps enormously.

French proficiency follows the CEFR scale — the Common European Framework of Reference for Languages, used across Europe. In practical terms for life in France, the thresholds that matter are:

• A1 — Absolute beginner. You can introduce yourself, ask basic questions, and understand very slow, simple speech. This is day one.

• A2 — Required for your first multi-year carte de séjour pluriannuelle. Basic but functional: you can handle routine interactions, describe your daily life, hold simple conversations. This is the floor, not the goal.

• B1 — Required for a carte de résident, the ten-year card. You can manage most everyday situations, follow conversations, and make yourself genuinely understood. This is also where things start to feel like actual fluency.

• B2 — Required for French citizenship. Upper intermediate. You can discuss complex topics, engage with the news, and operate independently in professional and social contexts.

One caveat worth knowing: applicants aged 65 and over are exempt from the language test requirements. So if you’re reading this from that particular vantage point — well done on getting here, and also, don’t use it as an excuse (btw, Ralph laughed when he saw this line). Your neighbors will still appreciate it.

Most of us arrive somewhere around A1 or A2, feel reasonably comfortable because we can survive a restaurant meal, and then plateau. The plateau is real, and it’s comfortable, and if you’re on a working visa like me, it will work against you when the renewal paperwork arrives. Because chances are, after going through the process the first time, you’ll do anything to get a multi-year card. At least I know that for me, four years without having to reapply would be a dream!!

How We Chose the Institut de Français

After a year in France, we started to feel that plateau. That’s why we opted to try an immersion – we wanted rapid progress.

The rest of this post is for paid subscribers — and this one's worth it! Below: the full breakdown of what the program costs, where we stayed, where we ate, what we did on weekends, and what happened to our French two months later.

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A quick note: This special post is behind the paywall — which means paid subscribers get the whole messy, funny, very true story. If you've been thinking about upgrading, I hope this gives you a reason to. And if not, I'll be back in your inbox this Sunday with a post about one of my favorite topics - brocante shopping!

xo,

Valérie

I am enormously lucky. I want to say that upfront, before I spend the next several paragraphs complaining about my beautiful old French house. I know it. I really do.

Okay. Now that that’s out of the way.

When Ralph and I moved to France, we knew that buying an 18th-century house came with responsibilities. We would be stewards of a magnificent property that has been standing for almost 300 years, so we set an annual budget for house projects — very responsible, very adult. The idea was to chip away at things thoughtfully, year by year. Balance. Equilibrium. Not getting in front of our own skis, as people sometimes say.

As if we could control things…

After settling in the first year with fresh paint and a new balcony floor, we set our sights on something bigger.

Forget the year of the Fire Horse. 2026 was supposed to be the year of the windows. The big ones in front of the house were lovely, but so very old — some estimates placed them at 100+ years, and the craftsmen had never seen that particular type of hardware in their lifetimes. Beautiful, yes. Energy efficient, no. Cold drafts entered. Hot air, too. Water seeped in through the sashes and marred the walls. So while I fought the idea at first, after a full year, even I could see the utility in replacing them. Because we live in a historic area, they had to be replicated in the same fashion as the originals — crafted out of hardwood, with multiple panes of glass — but this time double-glazed. Expensive. The final product was perfection. We were proud of ourselves.

And then, I think because finishing one large project gives you a dangerous sense of momentum, we kept going.

What happened when we kept going? Paid subscribers get the full story — including photos of the chaos, a small world moment in a hardware store, and the reasons why we scrapped our annual budget this year.

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We’ve got family coming to visit soon, and I’m in that happy planning phase — mentally mapping out where we’ll go and what we’ll do.

Over the past eighteen months, we’ve had more visitors here than anywhere else we’ve ever lived — and that’s saying something, considering Hawaii and Germany are on that list. But I’m not bored. Not even close. I’m still discovering new corners of this region. And because I love playing hostess, I tailor the plan to whoever’s coming — their interests, their energy level, their tolerance for hills and oysters.

Our small town is quaint. We’re fortunate to have a cheese shop, patisserie, and boulangerie that are all pas mal — destinations in their own right if you don’t live in France. But there are a few places everyone simply has to see.

The spots that still make me want to pinch myself — and the ones so slow and unassuming you don’t realize you’ve relaxed until it’s already happened.

The river towns.
The oyster shacks.
The medieval village that can be both overrun and irresistible.
The city streets that glow at golden hour like someone nudged the color up a notch.

Some of these places are dramatic and postcard-worthy.
Some are special because they invite us to sit long enough to lose track of time.

Somewhere in the middle of that is the life we’ve grown into.

P.S. I’m about to take you on a virtual journey to Bordeaux, Saint-Émilion, the coast, and a Sunday market.

If you’re up for the wander, the rest of this post is for paid subscribers.

Your support helps me keep telling these stories - merci!

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When we were house hunting, this was the most done house Ralph and I saw.

It had been elegantly renovated about ten years earlier — not trendy, not flashy, but thoughtful in a way that felt timeless. Stone, wood, iron. Nothing screaming to be replaced. I remember thinking: This is it. This is the one where we won’t be constantly fixing things.

And to be clear, I still feel that way. I love this house from the depths of my soul. I hope we won’t have to replace much of anything aesthetic in the coming decades, aside from perhaps a kitchen refresh (which is IKEA, believe it or not). The bones are solid. The choices weren’t just good — they were my version of perfect!

But when you buy a house that’s hundreds of years old, “done” doesn’t mean finished.

It means you’ve entered into a relationship.

In this case, it’s a relationship between a house built in 1762 and two people who are enthusiastic caretakers — yet not, in any meaningful sense of the word, handy.

The rest of this Postcard goes behind the shutters — into the real numbers, the learning curve, and the decisions that come with caring for a centuries-old home. It’s honest, imperfect, and very much a work in progress.

If you’re curious what “done” actually costs, I’d love to invite you inside!

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Because this place — with its river views, heavy shutters, and moss-covered stones — still feels like it chose us just as much as we chose it.

A month before our house hunting trip to southwest France, we’d lost another place we tried to buy. I was gutted, convinced I’d never see another place I’d love as much. And then this home — La Maison de l’Amiral — appeared. Every step went so smoothly it felt like we were being nudged along by something unseen, as if we were meant to land here.

Those first weeks after we arrived were surreal — fast and slow all at once.

We had only what we’d packed in the car and a few pieces of furniture we bought from the previous owner. Thankfully, that included a bed and a tiny outdoor table with matching chairs that we dragged into the dining room. Each day was a mix of exhaustion, exhilaration, overwhelm, and the quiet joy of starting over in a new country.

But not without its challenges… like the merde mystery.

The house was as empty as it would ever be, so I started cleaning — dusting, wiping down shelves, vacuuming — when I noticed tiny dark pellets everywhere. It looked like mouse poop… but so much of it. Which was baffling, because I’d been in the house two weeks before with my friend Jody, and it had been spotless.

So yes, we set traps in every corner. And yes, I was quietly panicking, trying not to imagine how many mice it would take to create such a mess so quickly.

Then I saw a clue: the same pellets… on the walls. The freshly painted walls.
Mice don’t climb walls. Do they?

Turns out the painters had left the windows open to help the paint dry, and a colony of bats had swooped in and… left their mark.

Honestly, “bat poop” felt like a relief — and it explained why we’d never caught a single mouse. Mystery solved!

Between vacuuming merde and the obligatory IKEA run, we tried to get to know our new town. We wandered around, curious and slightly dazed, walking streets we already recognized from Google Maps and Street View. It felt oddly familiar, like stepping into a place we’d already lived in another life.

All the while, the house kept reminding us of what first drew us in…

But let’s rewind to February 2024.

It was the last day of our fourth house-hunting trip, and morale was, well — let’s just say it was a bit low. We’d finished touring the house I’d initially inquired about, our top contender for the region. The ground floor was beautiful, but upstairs, five bedrooms shared one bathroom, and the roof needed replacing. Another miss.

So we followed the realtor to the next house. She hadn’t shared a listing or an address. I had no idea what to expect. We parked and joined her in front of the house, not able to see much of anything thanks to the tall fence around the property.

The second the gate swung open, my mouth dropped.

Behind it was a breathtaking sweep of the Dordogne River. Our realtor leaned toward me and pointed to some words on a folded sheet of paper.

“Valerie… this one’s out of the budget. But it checked all your boxes, so I felt like I had to show it to you.”

It felt like an episode of House Hunters International, where they intentionally lure you into something unattainable, just to watch your reaction.

I turned to Ralph: “Do not fall in love with this place.”

But he had that quiet, unmistakable smile — the one that appears only when something is exactly right.

And in that instant, before we’d even stepped through the front door, I knew: If the inside was even half as good as the outside… we were in trouble. Because when we get hooked on something, we tend to go all in.

Spoiler: the inside was even better. A true coup de cœur. Love at first sight!

Finally, we were ready to put our months-long house hunt to rest.

Here’s what the house looked like the day we got the keys — empty rooms that echoed, corners waiting for their purpose, and all the possibility in the world.

The rest of this Postcard — the empty rooms, the chaos, the transformation, and the “after” photos — is for paid subscribers.

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