If you’ve ever wanted to test the strength of your marriage, your immune system, and your nervous system all at once, I highly recommend this method:
Buy a château in France.
Fly to the U.S. and return in early November.
Give yourself two weeks to move.
Get violently ill the day before moving day.
Do it anyway.
It’s character-building. It’s also deeply stupid.
For context, we’re an American family who moved from California to France a little over two years ago with two young children. We rented a farmhouse while we slowly explored regions and tried to do this thoughtfully, not impulsively. And now, somehow, we’re living in a seven-bedroom château in the French countryside. Still pinching ourselves. Still asking “why is that outlet making that noise?” like it’s normal.
The first two weeks were not elegant.
They were MEMORABLE.
Two weeks to go, and the farmhouse was in open-tab chaos
We got back from the States in early November and immediately entered what I can only describe as a living situation with the energy of a tornado that had developed a strong interest in cardboard boxes.
The farmhouse was in disarray. Half-packed boxes. Lists everywhere. Random objects migrating into rooms they didn’t belong in. The emotional atmosphere of a place that knows it’s about to be left behind.
We were excited, yes. But the house itself wasn’t exactly cheerful during those two weeks. It felt like limbo. Like we were camping inside our own life.
And then, naturally, the day before the move…
Sean and I both got super sick.
Not “a little under the weather.” Not “a sniffle.”
Full fever, full body aches, full “why are we doing this” despair.
But no one else was going to do it for us. The château wasn’t going to move us in gently out of gratitude. The boxes weren’t going to pack themselves. So we did what parents do.
We continued. Poorly.
Moving Day: Thanksgiving, but make it French and miserable
Moving day was Thanksgiving Day, which feels poetic in hindsight. We had a moving company come to load the truck, which was arguably the only reason we didn’t die. Even so, Sean and I were basically ghosts floating through the day with fevers, trying to answer questions like “where should this go?” when we barely knew our own names.
It was misery. The kind where you stop complaining and just become quiet.
And then, that night, something happened that still makes me tear up un petit peu.
The owner of our rented farmhouse surprised us with a late-night Thanksgiving dinner…that she cooked for us in her château. Turkey, green beans, sweet potatoes, pecan pie. A full Thanksgiving, appearing out of nowhere in rural France, when we were sick and exhausted and barely holding it together.
It was one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for us.
After that, we drove late at night to our new château, stumbled into bed, and collapsed like Victorian characters who had survived a storm at sea.
The next morning: Rain, darkness, and a power outage
The movers arrived the next morning with our things. It was pouring rain, gray and cold and heavy in the way a French November can be.
Within ten minutes of their arrival, the power went out.
Not “a breaker.” Not “one room.”
Everything. No electricity. No lights. No heat.
We immediately assumed the worst. We were running around the property like frantic new owners, convinced we’d discovered a major electrical issue that hadn’t been disclosed. We were already feverish and sleep-deprived, so obviously our brains went straight to catastrophe.
But then we learned: it was a city-wide outage. The first they’d had in years.
Naturally, it chose our move-in day.
So there we were. Movers carrying giant pieces of furniture up a spiral staircase in the dark. No lights. No heat. Rain outside. Boxes inside. Two parents with the flu trying to remember how to speak.
The power eventually came back on but…it was a vibe.
A very specific sort of château initiation ritual.
From one bedroom to seven
Once everything was in, it was overwhelming in the purest sense of the word.
We had gone from a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment in Los Angeles 2.5 years ago…to a three-bedroom farmhouse in France…and now to a seven-bedroom, five-bath château (not even counting the outbuildings).
I don’t think your nervous system is meant to process that many rooms at once, especially while recovering from the flu.
And then our daughter got very sick. Like, super sick. For over a week.
Meanwhile, the kids had just started at a new school. Winter days were short and dark. We were driving them in the cold mornings and picking them up in the cold afternoons, feeling like we lived inside a rainy charcoal drawing.
It was dreary and demanding.
And yet, it was still exciting. Still strange. Still magical, in the odd way that new beginnings can be, even when they’re messy.
Christmas decorations before unpacking: A bold choice
By early December, the kids were putting on the pressure.
“Where is the Christmas tree?”
“Can we decorate now?”
“Is Christmas in the boxes?”
So we did what any sensible family does during a high-stress transition: we rummaged through piles of boxes and found the decorations and put the tree up before we had unpacked anything else.
This made the house significantly messier, but it also made it feel like home. Because it’s hard to be completely miserable when twinkle lights are involved.
At the same time, we were realizing: we were hosting family for Christmas. In two weeks, and in a house we hadn’t even lived in properly yet.
So we began the practical scavenger hunt: Do we have linens? Towels? Hand soap? Enough mugs? Enough chairs? Does anyone own a second toilet plunger?
Every day was an inventory. Every day was a new “how do we not embarrass ourselves” list.
Reinforcements arrive: The parents
Sean’s parents arrived about a week before the rest of the family, and I cannot overstate how helpful they were.
They helped us put rooms together. They helped us organize. They cooked meals and washed dishes. They spent time with the kids. They helped us see through the chaos. They even helped install our first reverse osmosis water filtration system, which sounds boring until you realize that clean, delicious water instantly makes you feel 85% more stable as a person.
We scrambled. We triaged. We made choices like:
“This room looks fine, shut the door.”
“This room is a crime scene, also shut the door.”
And somehow, we got there.
Christmas in a Château (not perfect, still wonderful)
Then everyone arrived.
There was jetlag. There were lingering colds. There were boxes in certain rooms. There were (several) corners that were absolutely not shiny and clean.
But it was still lovely.
We made memories, opened gifts, watched movies, baked cookies. We took long walks through the forest. We did those slow winter things that make you feel like you can breathe again.
And on Christmas morning, it snowed.
In a way that felt so perfectly timed, it was almost suspicious. 👀
It really did feel like a Christmas miracle, the kind you get in a movie, except our movie also included ibuprofen and a half-unpacked house.
Now: Quiet, blank slate, and the long view
Now most of the family has gone home, and we’re entering a new phase. The quieter one.
We’re taking walks around the property and discovering things slowly.
What is that flat stone in the middle of the field? Why is there a path there? How many animal trails are on this land, and who is using them? (We just got critter cams, because apparently we are those people now, and I’m not mad about it.)
The trees are bare. There are no flowers. No leaves. The garden is a blank slate, which feels both calming and slightly daunting.
We’ve purchased eleven fruit trees to add to a tiny orchard. And then reality taps you gently on the shoulder and whispers: it will be at least 1.5 years before you see fruit.
So we’re learning patience.
We’re prioritizing, making phone calls. Getting to know our town, our neighbors, and the rhythms of this place. We’re slowly shifting from “move-in survival mode” to “okay, let’s build a life here.”
It’s still overwhelming, at times.
But now it’s the good kind. The kind where you feel the weight of a dream becoming real, day by day.
More soon.
À bientôt,
Kamille
(Upcoming posts: the moving day details I can’t fit in here, why we chose this château, our renovation plans, and, eventually, the bank story. I’m still emotionally recovering from that one.)
A note for new readers: we’re an American family living in rural France, restoring a small château, and writing it all down here.
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A second reading of your latest tale from the chateau was even more enjoyable as the first Kamille. Loved this line in your story "It really did feel like a Christmas miracle, the kind you get in a movie, except our movie also included ibuprofen and a half-unpacked house." Keep them coming.