Four years ago, I met a couple of expat Americans living in Buenos Aires. They had just written a book detailing their decision to sell everything and move south with only a couple of suitcases and a couple of teenagers. Their experiment, if you want to call it that, was wildly successful on many accounts. Their children learned, and learned, and learned some more. They became, if not bi-cultural, certainly bi-lingual, and bookwise, were so advanced that by the time they were 19, they skipped college entirely, and headed off for their masters back in the US. Today, they are healthy, independent adults, and their parents are still living the dream in Argentina.
From that point on, I began to plot my escape from my suburban town. It wasn't until I announced, first to one or two close friends, then the school superintendent, and finally the world, that we had decided to take a semester off, that I actually made the decision to spend time with Alexandre in France, that we actually went ahead and got plane tickets, found an apartment, and found out how to enroll in school.
It has seemed like a dream. But now, now that we are actually to board in less than 48 hours, I am starting to panic. What if the pollution causes an athsma attack? What if Alexandre's egg allergy becomes worse? What if Nicholas hates school? What if WWIII breaks out? The more I think, the more my questions become absurd. I hope that by this time Saturday, the major doubts will have vanished into the bright Burgundy sun.
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