Paris Syndrome is a term originally coined by a Japanese psychiatrist, Dr. Hiroaki Ota. Ota observed a pattern of symptoms after Japanese tourists had visited Paris, including dizziness, sweating, and even hallucinations. ( psychologyoftravel.com )
I’ve never had that problem with Paris. I have always known I am out of my depth there. I know enough French to know I don’t know enough French and I know enough about France to know I don’t know anywhere near enough about the French.
People have often asked me if I would live in Paris. I’ve always said I’d be more likely to live by the sea somewhere in France like I do in Australia. I pictured myself in a coastal town with a lively cultural scene, a couple of festivals each year and at least one English bookstore. My husband’s needs are different. He’s in the market for a squash club and a padel tennis club. We’d both like lots of good food. A touristy town with a vibe, a roman ruin or two and a chateau. And we’re both keen for those easy transport options to the rest of Europe and the world beyond.
Not asking much… Basically what we want is something similar to the town we live in now, but in France, thank you kindly.
We thought we had found the place. We visited this place in 1998 and fell in love. It’s within a few hours’ train travel to Paris, and Spain, Italy and beyond. It has a castle, an art museum, lots of great restaurants, padel tennis and squash. My husband’s friend won a squash tournament there a few years back. It has lovely bookstores, one of which was available for sale a few months ago…
I could see us retiring to this gorgeous little town with its markets, train access to the rest of the Mediterranean coast. It was perfect.
But like where I live, like where most of us live, this perfect little town has its problems. No doubt there are drug addicts, thieves, welfare cheats. Of course, it’s not always sunny, it has become very expensive, and sadly this particular town has been in the news recently for the worst possible reason. A horrific case of abuse committed against a woman by her husband and men he had recruited over a decade.
It was so easy to see it as this little town captured in amber, always sunny, everyone smiling because that was how we experienced it for a few perfect days 27 years ago. As much as I love France and travel in general, it’s a trap to think that a perfect, idyllic village exists, frozen in time. Nostalgia is a trap. Believing the Instagram version is real is a trap.
Paris is a massive city with all the good and bad that comes from that and quaint French villages are filled with real people and the good and bad that comes with that.
Even the perfect folks in Schmigadoon had to get real eventually. Wherever we end up we just have to make the best of it. There is no perfect place.
