Arrival in France (or how everything went slightly wrong all at once)

I touched down in Paris on a freezing cold, rainy Wednesday morning.

It felt exactly as dramatic as it sounds.

I had left Australia the day before in a state that can only be described as uncharacteristically emotional. I was crying in the airport. I was crying on the plane. I was still crying as the plane taxied for take-off, which is not ideal when you’re meant to be embarking on an exciting new chapter of your life.

It had been a tumultuous few weeks.

Living on a water-access-only island is idyllic — until you try to move house. Clearing out an entire home, organising furniture, disposing of rubbish, and preparing the property for Airbnb… on your own… requires a level of physical and emotional endurance that I had not fully appreciated in advance.

The send-offs from friends, family and my children were wonderful.Which unfortunately only served to highlight how much I was going to miss everyone.

Twenty-five hours later, I arrived in Paris.

This was meant to be the start of my new life.

I should have felt excited.

Instead, I felt… slightly shell-shocked. And very alone.

I made my way to the baggage carousel and began scanning for oversized luggage.

I had brought my partner’s guitar with me — his pride and joy (aside from his children, obviously). Losing it was not an option.

Eventually it appeared, mercifully intact.

At this point, I became aware that I had made a series of questionable packing decisions.

I had boarded the flight with what can only be described as an obscene amount of hand luggage, most of which I had successfully concealed under my coat at various boarding gates. Now, combined with my checked luggage and a full-sized guitar, I was essentially attempting to relocate a small household through Charles de Gaulle Airport by myself.

As I searched for a trolley, I noticed an email pop up on my phone.

It was from the pet transport company.

Two days earlier, I had handed over our two dogs after weeks of preparation — rabies vaccinations, paperwork, export approvals — all culminating in the reassuring message before take-off that everything was in order and the dogs were “good to go.”

The email read:

Your dogs' flight has not gone according to plan and they will not be arriving.

That was it.

No explanation. No reassurance. No details.

Just… not arriving.

My mind immediately went to the dogs in their crates.

The crates were large, yes. But not “extended unexpected stay” large.

Evie, our golden retriever — affectionately known as “Evil” — had been physically shaking when she was placed into hers.

I tried calling the transport company. No answer.

I sent messages. Emails. More messages. I contacted my daughter, who also began calling them.

Eventually, between us, we were told that due to “issues in Iran,” there were fewer quarantine staff available and therefore the dogs had missed their flight.

This explanation raised more questions than it answered.

Meanwhile, Paris customs were contacting me:

Your dogs failed to board their flight. What is the plan?

An excellent question.

At around the same time, my partner messaged to say he had missed his flight.

At this point, I felt it was entirely reasonable to express myself using several carefully chosen expletives.

I had booked us into a hotel near the airport — early check-in, junior suite, the works. We hadn’t seen each other in weeks. It was meant to be a moment.

Instead, I found myself standing outside Charles de Gaulle with too much luggage, no dogs, and no clear plan.

I got into a taxi.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I knew the name of the hotel.

I did not know the address.

I assumed — incorrectly — that a hotel near the airport would be widely recognised by taxi drivers operating at the airport.

My phone, of course, had no signal.

Between us, through a combination of guesswork and mutual confusion, we eventually found it.

“€45,” he said.

I knew it was too much.

I paid it anyway.

At the hotel, I attempted to speak French.

One word in, they switched to English.

Even my bonjour is apparently not convincing.

My partner eventually arrived late that evening.We had dinner. We regrouped. We moved on.

The next morning, we boarded the TGV to the south of France.

With even more luggage.

Meanwhile, the dog situation continued to evolve.

Initially, we were told they would arrive the following week.

I pointed out — perhaps unwisely — that if I arrived more than five days before them, the dogs would be classified as a commercial import, which would incur additional charges.

“No problem,” they said. “We will cover the cost.”

Shortly after that, I began receiving messages from both French customs and a French transport company saying the dogs would now be arriving on the weekend.

A development which may or may not have been financially motivated.

Eventually, we established that the dogs would arrive on Saturday.

So, on Thursday, we travelled south to our rental property — which, I am happy to report, is lovely.

On Friday night, we drove to Marseille to collect our daughter, who landed at midnight from London.

We arrived home at 2am.

At 6am, we left again to travel back to Paris to collect the dogs.

At Charles de Gaulle, I went to collect our rental car.

I had specifically booked a large vehicle — something capable of accommodating:

• two dogs

• two crates

• and three very tired humans

“We have given you an electric car,” the woman said.

I paused.

I had never driven an electric car.

I asked if there were alternatives.

“Yes,” she said. “For €50 extra per day.”

We had booked it for seven days.

We had a brief family discussion.

We took the electric car.

The reunion with the dogs was wonderful.

They were fine. Happy. Unbothered. Clearly far more resilient than the humans involved.

Everything — dogs, crates, people — just about fit into the car.

We set off.

The range of our electric car: 200 km.

The journey: approximately 800 km.

There is a particular kind of stress that comes from driving a car that calmly informs you that you have 10 km remaining… while you are in an unfamiliar country, with limited knowledge of charging infrastructure, trying to calculate whether you can make it to the next station without bringing the entire operation to a halt.

We stopped. Frequently.

At one point, I became deeply invested in the relationship between:

• current battery percentage

• distance to next charger

• and my overall will to continue

Eventually, at 11pm, we arrived home.

The dogs stepped out of the car as if they had just returned from a pleasant afternoon outing.

Fresh. Relaxed. Completely unfazed.

The humans, on the other hand, were perhaps a little less refreshed.

Welcome to France.