In Bordeaux I found my future home. A city on the river, with light and a feeling of immense space and airiness. It seemed like a city I could live in, and maybe one day I will.

I went there on my last day with the Svarcs, and it was a short hour and a half drive, with the children arguing around me as I sat wedged in between their happy bickering. I caught the tram with Arthur and Marie and saw some of Bordeaux's finery, before heading over to the markets. Stalls lined the river with everything one could possibly want on a Sunday morning, and I wandered in between them calling Bonjour to all who looked my way. We met their English friends there for Brunch and it was a very happy bilingual gathering that sat eating our way through oysters, crab, champagne and lots of things I was enjoying being introduced to. 'Oh, you must try this' someone would say putting a new cheese on my plate, 'and these' someone else would call, passing me half a dozen macaroons. By this time I was amply fattened and could manage obscene amounts of food without blinking, so I took it all and ignored the voice in my head that said I would soon burst.

We went to the Christmas market - The Marche de Noel - after and I was infused with the Christmas spirit. A carousel occupied the children while I browsed the stalls. I found an Australian bar serving all the apparently Aussie cuisine - Fosters, bagels and a few half hearted attempts at sausages -have these people even been to Aus? There was no Vegemite in sight, so I doubt it. I'm a little sick of the Fosters line as well. 'Don't worry, I'm sure they have Fosters', people assure me every time a drink is mentioned. I had never drunk Fosters in my life before coming here, and don't know anyone at home who drinks it regularly either. Another urban myth I have safely quashed.

After a while, despite the sun, the cold became everything, and, shivering I passed a lone glove between numbed fingers. A nice guy came up to talk to me and all I could think of was how warm his hat looked, and how hard it would be to steal it from him. Admittedly it was a bit of a moral low point.
Shopping with Gemma, the daughter of one of the English couples took up the afternoon, and she expertly navigated the shops, speaking French for me and showing me that no matter what country you are in, and no matter that there are beautiful little French bars and cafes, Mcdonalds is still the first stopping point and the coffee is just as bad there.

When the sun went down and the river stopped shining we drove home, and I had my last meal with the Svarcs. It was sad to leave them, they were a nice family, who introduced me to the French ways, and said I was welcome back any time. I got a little too comfortable there, so to pick up my suitcase again seemed a big effort, but I did it. Paris called, and when it does, it's impossible to ignore.