THE WEDDING, THE FLIGHT, THE DECISION.

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A “Hello” to forever: into the mist of change   

It was a typical rainy Tuesday evening in Vancouver—one of those cozy nights when the city glows under a veil of humidity and mist. As I stepped through the front door, our familiar jazz playlist greeted me gently. But something was different.

Roses adorned the table, their soft velvety petals gracefully strewn. Candlelight flickered warmly across the room. A chilled bottle of champagne stood next to a perfectly arranged apéritif platter. It was the kind of romantic setting you usually see in French films—and yet, here it was, in our home.

She sat there quietly on the couch, an unfamiliar look on her face.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Hello,” I replied, unsure—nervous, as the word caught in my throat and trembled just enough to betray me. Was this moment what I thought it was?

I sat down, my heart racing. A few quiet minutes passed, thick with emotion. And then, all at once, the champagne popped—and so did the question.

The truth is, I hadn’t even seen the ring just yet. I’d been caught in this soundless kind of sobbing, that was somewhere between a laugh and cry,  but nevertheless completely undone, my mascara streaking down my cheeks. Quite the beauty and grace she was to marry. She had to guide my teary eyes to the ring, otherwise (as she told me later) she’d nearly tucked it back in her pocket in order to console her ever gracefully emotional spouse – to be.  It was perfect. She was perfect. And we were engaged.

The very next morning, wedding planning began. We made phone calls, scribbled ideas, and without hesitation, we both knew: the wedding would take place in the romantic heart of the French countryside.

That rainy night  marked the beginning of our forever—and the first chapter in what would become a life filled with wine, wonder, and endless adventure.

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The Grace of Loving and being Loved…
and Saying “Oui” In a Château

We came for the wine, but stayed for the vows.

The château—a 15-bedroom fairytale tucked into the heart of the French countryside—was more than we could have dreamed. Each room was draped in character: ancienne furniture, French fabrics soft with age, and windows that framed the countryside like paintings. We had chosen well. The weather, however, had its own opinion.

Still, nothing could dampen the magic of the weekend.

We welcomed 31 guests—each one the result of long, heartfelt, and thoughtful discussions. Every name on that list was written with intention, and the result was a group of people who met the moment with open hearts. Converting wedding cynics into lovers, signed to the church of l’amour .

Our French family? Legends. From arranging garden roses to float in champagne basins, to curating the most divine spreads for aperó, they poured love into every detail. The wine flowed, and charcuterie boards bowed under the weight of local delicacies.

The grange—our rustic reception hall—was transformed with wildflowers gathered that morning by our mother, ever affectionately named “Maman Bichette”. A canopy of guinguette string lights were strung high in the rafters and when guests took their seats at the long, candlelit table, it felt like stepping into a dream.

And the rain…unleashed itself only when we were safely indoors. We suspect this meteorological miracle had something to do with our respective very European  grandmothers—likely watching from above, armed with well-aimed threats in French and Swiss German, and politely telling the clouds to hold their f*cking horses. 

They held the storm. We held each other.
And somewhere in between, we said oui.

wedding Photo credit: Jason Benson

A Decision to Leap at 30,000 Feet 

A midair moment of clarity
when chance bowed to quiet courage.

We spent our mini-moon drifting between Vannes and the South of France, chasing the sun and some stillness. We were exhausted—happily undone by the romance of the weekend, deeply in love with each other, and still wrapped in the warmth of our people.

There were ocean swims, tan lines, and more than a few bottles of wine shared and savored. But eventually, it was time to go.
Saying goodbye is never easy. In fact, it’s the only time we cry quite like that.  Parting from her family is something deep, physical, undeniable. A kind of full-body grief that grabs you behind the ribs and won’t let go.

The French, as we’ve come to know well, have a language for emotions that English can only tiptoe around. So when I say “tu me manques,” what I mean isn’t simply “I miss you.”
It means: “You are missing from me.”
To me, it perfectly encapsulates  our body experience. Unraveling at an atomic level, like fibers of your being pulled apart by some unmistakable force, leaving you winded, knocked straight through – in one side, out the other.

We boarded the plane, never imagining that the next time we flew, it would be on a one-way ticket back.
Midway through the flight, my anxious wife sat up in her seat. Over the years, I’ve learned to give her space when we travel—what’s routine for me is no small thing for her. She doesn’t joke about flight anxiety.

I had been sitting on a question for hours, quietly waiting for the right moment. Finally, I turned to her and said,
“What’s the point in waiting?”
She looked at me with that face she makes when a word doesn’t quite translate—my bilingual sweetheart caught somewhere between comprehension and disbelief.

She had already left her job. I could work remotely. And there we were, at 30,000 feet, suspended between two places we called home—and we chose.
We just had to figure out the logistics:
– Make a bit more money…
– Navigate the beautiful nightmare that is French bureaucracy…
– Find an apartment and pack up our own…

Simple enough, …right?

But all jokes aside, I knew the truth:
My wife was ready to go home.
She had been waiting—gently, patiently—for me to be ready, too.
And I was.
I had been searching for a change, something bigger, something truly in line with my heart’s rhythm.
And we both knew we needed to be with her family.

Her grandparents—Mamie Mado and Papy Michel—are our treasures. What they’ve given over a lifetime of love, we felt deeply called to return. We wanted to soak in the warmth of Mamie’s memory, to give Papy the affection only grandchildren can offer: full of bisous, tenderness, and time.
They had given so much. It was our turn to give back.

We kissed each other then, and shared a quiet, knowing smile. The kind that holds courage, tenderness, and pride—for each other, for the life we built’, and the one we were now choosing.

A new chapter was beginning, towards the paradise of Wine and Wonder.

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