and still no answer, but happy with a variable

I have been seduced.
By a book.
About an English couple living in France for a year.
"A year in Provence" by Peter Mayle.
It is now time to confess to you that I have been trying terribly hard for months, since I first heard of this opportunity to do this internship, not to dream about life in France. I'm trying not to dream until I find out oui or non.
But I do.
I imagine I live in a little appartement with windows that look out on small winding streets packed with european cars. I imagine taking a scarf--une écharpe-- from my little armoir, wrapping it around my neck to complete a classic ensemble and heading down to my corner boulangerie for a baguette. Sometimes I indulge in my naivety and let myself believe that everything in France will be small, expensive and amazing. I could maybe live in a place that is filled with little Sanpellegrino bottles (yes, I know they're Italian). Maybe I'll have to cook off a hot plate and take public transportation to work. Maybe the winter will freeze me to the marrow like no winter has since I've moved away from home and the thought of freezing me arse off in France sounds appealing. I imagine the appartements I've seen from French New Wave cinema and I see myself taping posters from obscure artists to my walls. Maybe I'll even confess I dream of overly charming French men who will try to win my heart and I amuse myself by thinking of good and cheesy "sweet nothings" in French. Oh dear, one by one I'm letting all of my secrets out.

Do you ever wonder what exactly has been someone's life experience? How has everything they lived through, the music their parents listened to, the people they met and saw--how has it all made them who they are?...it's an inestimable equation to get from birth to present to death.