A year on the dot? But we’ve got to celebrate! exclaims Azur, to whom I’ve just reminded that one year ago today we arrived in the port of Carnon under a thick mist (a gift from heaven to hide those infamous building blocks I still can’t get used to), after a long day floating in a homogeneous greyness with no horizon, from Marseille to our new life.

A life with obligations to get to school, college or work, a car to get around in, regular activities and a routine that would scare the hell out of any adventurer. Of course, three hundred and sixty-six days later (leap year, how could I forget), having kept the sighs at bay for as long as possible, it’s time to take stock.

The thing I regret most about my old life is not being able to turn up at a friend’s house, out of the blue, to sip a cup of tea and open the decompression valve. Local invitations to each other’s houses can be counted on the fingers of one hand: a couple of times to the house of an ex-colleague of Thomas, the same to the house of a tango and Plumes de Vies friend, five or six to the houses of theatre friends to rehearse, and that’s about it. Oh yes, one invitation was declined because it was too far away during the working week, and I had a drink with a friend on the terrace of a café. My choice of Perrier-Violette left him speechless. And I crashed at a tango friend’s place after a trip to the Pont du Gard, to spare our driver, the Perrier-Violette buddy, the diversions to Carnon at two in the morning.

What I appreciate most: The persistence of family ties and friendships, nurtured by regular, if not frequent, return trips between New Zealand and France, revitalised this year by the relative proximity, the more unexpected reconnections that seem to reconnect me with a part of myself, left by the wayside of the urgent need to live, thank you Béné, thank you Hélène, thank you Marie, thank you Isabelle, thank you Etienne.

And to be able to dance, dance, dance until heavenly intoxication. Nothing quenches my thirst for dance! Tango lounge. O’liver Pub. GAM. Temple of Dance. Tenderness. Milonga del Angel. Espace Adages. Manzanillo Libre. Loft. House of Tango. La Conviviale. Café de la Paix. La Parisiana. Opéra-Comédie. Agora Cité de la Danse. Janson de Fabrègues Cultural Centre. Arles Youth Hostel. La Cave d’Aubais. Streets of Villeneuve-Les-Maguelone. Arc de Triomphe in Montpellier. Esplanade du Peyrou. Place Henri Kracucki. Villanueva Tango. Fabre Museum. Place des Tonneliers. Artango-Cosmos. Salle des Casernes d’Anduze. Parc du Lac du Crès. Pont du Gard. Port of Dahouët. La Grange Causse de la Selle. Place Albert Ier (and soon the roof of the Corum for a lesson aith Mathild Monnier, no less). No less than thirty-five places visited, that’s almost one place every week, for the simple pleasure of shaking things up, without necessarily knowing anyone in advance, but don’t you always end up making friends with the faithful? I already feel like part of the furniture.

If the year could be described by one word: effervescence. A buzz of encounters, discoveries and new experiences. Starting with witnessing the lightning acclimatisation of our little ones, the astonishing speed with which they integrated and bonded. Not to mention the unprecedented ordeal of seeing our eldest reach puberty, and witnessing his disconcerting transition to adulthood, with its share of self-assertion, clashes and tensions. Admittedly we haven’t completely reshuffled the deck by staying on the boat, but things are moving, with Azur starting college, Thomas losing his job, and the hundreds of people we’ve met this summer in more or less happy circumstances. Despite my data skills, my brain isn’t equipped to handle the sheer volume of data we’re dealing with. It’s buzzing, swirling, swarming.

After an ice cream at Angelo’s (Spéculoos for Zéphyr, Orange Blossom for Thomas, Cinnamon for Azur and Banoffee for me, I can feel the nostalgia for Anglo-Saxon flavours coming on), the celebration was brief and I later had to slip away to take the time to think and write. An evening alone, in a house lent to Saint Vincent de Barbeyragues. Watching the sky crack wide open, while I mended all the pieces of my life.

On the eve of seeing Sam, Kate, Amalia and Indigo again, the fifth cluster of friends we met in New Zealand, who attended our farewell party and with whom we’re spending time this summer, I’m petrified at the idea that our current life and little mundane struggles might disappoint, but reassured that these fifteen years of life on the other side of the world were a shared dream that we don’t have to archive before embarking on new projects.