I order my lunch in French, for the practice, but it comes out all botched, and I end up saying it in English anyway. God, this language. So distinguished, but so damn difficult. Last night, when Camille was searching for an English TV channel to watch the news on, I insisted we watch the news she always watches. I didn’t understand any of it, but from the footage shown, I got the context. Camille translated for me as best she could, and afterwards I reminded her of her promise to teach me French while I was here.

“Everything in due time, chérie,” she said. “I’ve already taught you how to dance salsa.”

Maybe I shouldn’t rely on Camille to teach me French, but take an intensive immersion course while I’m here instead. As lovely as all the French around me sounds, I’m not going to learn to speak it just by sitting here. Because learning French is not even a choice for me anymore. I know I want to. Camille speaks English. Why shouldn’t I speak French? Millions of people speak multiple languages. I barely understand my grandparents’ mother tongue. Because no matter where you go, English will always carry you through, even in Paris. However, it’s not the kind of visitor to this city I want to be, it’s not the kind of partner to Camille I want to be. But French lessons are for tomorrow. Today, I have more exploring to do.

After lunch, I head to the Centre Pompidou and am immediately discouraged by the line in front of the entrance. Though a few clouds have come in, the weather is still bright and summery—not blistering like Sydney summers can be—and I decide to walk more. My hips are no longer stiff from Sunday’s impromptu dance session, and I can walk like a normal person again—something I wasn’t capable of yesterday and for which I was mercilessly mocked by Camille.

I walk and walk, soaking in the splendor of this city, to which Sydney pales in comparison. There’s not the same sense of history in my adopted home city, of what happened centuries ago. Moreover, Camille doesn’t live in Sydney. And there’s the thought again, rushing to the forefront of my mind. It’s much more than an inkling now. It comes at me in the shape of a well-formed confrontational question: would I move here to be with her?