I have rekindled my love affair with France, as France has with Europe
WHEN I was 16, I wanted to be French. The French ate baguettes. They were tanned. They wore espadrilles.
France offered me the only escape route out of my south Dublin existence. I resolved to become fluent in the language: I found myself a French au pair job, for the summer of fifth year. I had no childcare experience. I just knew I wanted to speak French fluently, and, three months later, after a truly miserable summer, I did.
