Where to Next?

By Solène Anglaret

Where to Next? is a memoir about travelling and living abroad.

This memoir will take you on a journey from childhood to adulthood through France, Norway, the United States, the United Kingdom, China and Australia.

It is filled with challenging experiences, fundamental lessons and unforgettable encounters. Witness how such a lifestyle beyond borders changes one’s character as well as perception of where and what home actually is.

Following the author’s footsteps all over the world will bring you out of your comfort zone, widen your horizons and leave you wondering where and what ‘home’ means to you.

“Where to Next? is a soul-searching page-turner, a must-have and must-read for anyone wanting to explore the world and its amazing horizons.”
Alice Miller Dupas – France, US, Germany

“What an amazing adventure! This book widened my horizons, causing me to laugh and cry as I turned the pages.”
Alison Small – United Kingdom

“See the world and the meaning of life through Solène’s eyes. Witnessing her emotional rollercoaster of a journey makes you think about what you want to do and who you’d like to be. This book is a must-read for anyone looking for new adventures.”
Amélie Pha – France, Austria, Libya, Germany

“A tribute at the altar of wanderlust, this story takes the reader on an emotional rollercoaster of not belonging where you are and constantly searching for your mythical place in the world. A testament that life shouldn’t be lived trying to ‘keep up with the Joneses’, but rather, listening to your instinctual gut feeling and following your own individual path. An emotionally honest and raw memoir told in short, witty snippets – the memories, milestones, challenges, and anecdotes – that make up a life, and the lessons learnt along the way.”
Andrea Agrotis – Australia, Cyprus, United Kingdom, France, Greece

“We don’t always get what we want in life, but if you try your hardest, you become wiser, stronger and more compassionate. This book traces Solène’s life journey and her courageous outlook for adventure. I can’t wait to find out what’s next!”
Bonnie Chao – United States, China

“This is the most inspiring book I have read in a long time! Be ready to travel the world and embark on a new adventure every time you turn a page.”
Céline Maimaran – France, Morocco, United Kingdom, United States, Norway, Australia

“With Where to Next? the author shares her burning desire to travel the world as well as her determination to make her dreams come true. From childhood to adulthood, country after country, follow her footsteps, witness her joy, pain and life-changing moments. Reading this book will give you a boost and leave you positive, driven and energised.”
Joanne Profeta – France, Norway

“Living through the writer’s adventures was pure entertainment! Not only did this book inspire me to travel more, it also encouraged me to improve in everyday life.”
Lindsay Fave – United States, Australia

“This book is an essential read for anyone who feels alone, lost, frustrated and misunderstood. Read this story and understand that taking a chance, persevering and not accepting the status quo will take you on a journey to become a better you.”
Simon Taylor – United Kingdom, Australia, United States, Greece, China

“One word: Inspiring! I really enjoyed how this book challenged me and how much I could relate to it at the same time. Through her experience, the author reminded me that stepping out of your comfort zone is always the right thing to do.”
Ouissem Belgacem – France, Tunisia, United States, United Kingdom, Spain

• Language: English
• Publisher: Solène Anglaret
• Release date: May 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463602737

Solène Anglaret

Solène Anglaret is a world travelled storyteller. Having dreamt about it since childhood, she left home to explore the globe when she was only 18 years old. Just over 10 years later, she has lived in six countries and travelled to nearly 50. This life beyond borders and everything that comes with it, is the inspiration behind her book Where to Next? as well as her blog full of tips and stories.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Home is Louviers

Entrance

Paris. August 1988. Twenty-first day of the month. It’s warm and comfortable, but like most good things – or so I would understand much later on – it must come to an end. I’m not willing to make a smooth entrance into the world. Instead, it’s bum first that the doctor finds me. A caesarean is the only option. Hours later, I scream my lungs out. Where am I? Tiny, shivering and with hips twisted inwards, I’m not a pretty sight. Looks like we have a little rebel on our hands, Mum and Dad say to each other shortly after my grand entrance. Little do they know how right they’ll turn out to be.

Right

I live near Paris for the first two years of my existence, but I have no recollection of it. Then, my parents decide to move to Normandy. They buy a house at the edge of a small town called Louviers. It has a large and steep garden that ends in a forest. Right now, this house is home to me. It’s a familiar, organised mess in which comfort reigns. My favourite room of all is the corridor.

Corridor

Every so often, I transform it into a fashion runway. I wear my prettiest dresses, one after the other. Each time, I walk up and down in a straight line posing at either end of the room. It’s so much fun! Regardless of the fact my little sister can barely walk, I’m determined to make her do the same. I think she hates it. We’re only two years apart but couldn’t be more different. Sometimes, I wish I could go back to being an only child but then I feel bad because that’s mean. Everything changed after she was born. My whole universe seems to have been turned upside down. I’m no longer the centre of attention. She is. Slim, with huge, beautiful dark eyes and long straight hair, she looks perfect. Plus, she is so well-behaved. She sleeps, eats, and stays quiet. I’m the opposite. Chubby, with messy curly hair, and loud. I stand out for all the wrong reasons. My favourite hobbies are dancing, eating desserts, and flying.

Flying

I love flying. I hate flying. I love it because it takes me to places I’ve never been before. I hate it because my ears hurt when we take off and when we land. I’m four years old, and together with Mum, Dad, and my sister, we’re going to the Canary Islands for a family holiday. Waiting in line to enter this giant bird of steel, I’m nervous. On board, I sit in one of the enormous chairs between Mum and Dad. A beautiful lady in a blue suit asks if I’m ok. I am. Soon after, I hear a loud roar and feel the airplane take off. We’re flying! I’m flying! Through the window, I can see white and fluffy clouds against the bright blue sky. They look like cotton candy. I can’t stop staring. The view is so beautiful! I never want it to end. Why stay on earth when you can be in the sky? A burning desire to fly all over the world rises within me.

Burning

I hear the wood crackling. I watch the flames lengthening. I feel my body warming. It’s a typically cold, winter day. Dad is looking after the fire while Mum is cooking dinner for the four of us. It smells so good. Caramelised onions, eggplants, courgettes, peppers, tomatoes, thyme, rosemary… a ratatouille is in the making. One of my favourite dishes ever. If it’s followed by baguette with cheese and a chocolate fondant, I’ll be in food heaven! She’s never said, but I think cooking might be Mum’s way of showing us her love.

Mum

Mum, one day I’ll travel the world, meet a lot of people and tell their stories. I’m a six-year-old little girl who has big plans and a big mouth.

Sure, she says.

Feeling the distance in her voice, I think either she doesn’t believe me or she isn’t really listening. It happens sometimes when she comes back from work. Apparently, it’s stress and fatigue. Unless she’s had enough of me and my endless declarations. I don’t blame her.

After school, I often try to tell her about my day but she shrugs and says, It’s just little girl stories.

So I tell Martine instead. Martine is the kind lady who picks my sister and I up from school, cleans the house, and looks after us until Mum and Dad come back in the evening. They work hard and sometimes very late, Dad especially.

Dad

Every year at school the teacher asks us what our parents do, what their job is. Now that I’m seven years old, I think I should be able to understand, so I decide to question Dad. I try so hard to focus. I really want to make sense of his words. But all I gather is that I should say he’s an engineer. I have no idea what it means. All I know is: Dad wears suits, uses complicated words and travels all the time. I wish I could ask him again but I’m afraid it will seem as though I didn’t pay attention, or I didn’t understand the first time around. Neither are good things. I can’t wait to grow up! First, because I’m sure everything will be obvious then. Second, because I, too, want to wear fancy clothes, use incomprehensible language, and visit other countries. It must be so exciting!

Exciting

Today, we’re going on a family holiday to the United States. That’s where Granddad and Step-Grandma live. I saw on the blue, round globe at school that it’s really far away. None of my friends have been there. It will be the longest plane ride I’ve ever been on. Mum wrote a packing list. I followed it and made sure I gathered all the essentials: my favourite jumper covered in bears, my pretty blue and white dress and, most importantly, Boutchou, my teddy bear. It was given to me by Mum’s grandma when I was one. I can’t make up my mind whether it’s a boy or a girl. So yesterday it wore trousers and today it’s wearing a pretty pink dress with a little scarf Grandma sewed. It doesn’t matter which gender it is ‒ at least not to me ‒ as long as it’s fluffy. I carry Boutchou everywhere. Well, everywhere apart from school. That would be embarrassing. As we board the plane, I’m hyper-active and over-excited. I hug Boutchou tightly in my arms because it’s scared of flying. Once again, the engine roars and the airplane takes off. I can’t wait to see Granddad and Step-Grandma!

Step-Grandma

She is Granddad’s second wife. She is American. Although she is friendly to me, I’m not sure whether I’m allowed to like her or not. I’ve heard the story so many times. Grandma’s story. When Mum was in her twenties, Grandma received an anonymous letter through the mail saying that her husband was cheating on her. As it turned out he’d been seeing another woman on the other side of the Atlantic for the past ten years. Exposed, he decided to leave Grandma and move to the United States where he married his mistress. That’s how she became Mum’s Step-Mum and my Step-Grandma. To be honest, it’s fine by me. I’m not even sure if this story is true or if this is my interpretation of what I was told. The only problem is that it makes me sad to see Grandma sad. Every time I visit Grandma, she tells me that one day he will come back. I don’t think it’s true, but I don’t want to be the one to tell her. Maybe I should do so when I’m older, as this is definitely grown-up talk. In the meantime, I’ve decided that I will be nice to Step-Grandma because she is nice to me too. I’ve also made a mental note of never liking a boy as much as Grandma liked Granddad because break-ups look painful and pointless. Anyway, I don’t talk to boys.

Talk

Step-Grandma’s French isn’t great. She just asked us to help clean the ceiling instead of the floor. Plafond versus plancher. Close enough. We’re all laughing out loud. But behind my smile, there is determination. One day, I too want to be able to master this language of hers that right now sounds like a mysterious code to me. Last night, I overheard Dad and Granddad saying it’s the most spoken language in the world. The world, that’s what I want to see. Becoming fluent in English is something I must add to my ‘grown-up’ list.

List

Mum makes lists for trips to the supermarket, things to mend in the house, and what to pack for holidays. Dad makes lists of the bottles of wine in his cellar, the comic books he buys, and the number of kilometres he cycles per year. It seems as though making lists is the only way to get things done, so I decide that eight years old is a good age to start. In my head, I begin a list of all the things I’d like to do when I grow up. Thus far it reads:

• Travel the world

• Become fluent in English

• Never lose Boutchou

• …

That’s all I can come up with for now. It’s not much. Do other kids also have ‘grown-up’ lists? Will I ever be able to complete what’s on it? What if I don’t? All these questions come to my mind as I lie in bed hoping for a night without nightmares.

Nightmares

Every time we come back from holidays, I have the same nightmare. We’re driving back home from the airport at night while my sister and I are sleeping soundly at the back of the car. Johnny Halliday’s ‘Allumer le Feu’¹ is playing in the background but it doesn’t bother us. As we approach our house, I hear Mum gasp. The sound she makes isn’t loud but rather unusual. I open my eyes to see what it’s about and ask her what’s wrong. That’s when I realise we’ve almost arrived. I start to distinguish our house from afar. Something is odd. It looks like the wood in our fireplace on typical winter days. I see orange, red, yellow and suddenly realise that our house is covered in flames. Yet, I can’t hear anything. Silence. Dad parks the car in front of the door and all four of us jump out. We can’t go far though. Standing on the sidewalk, I’m freezing cold despite the heat of the fire. I should do something! I have to move. But I’m stuck, stunned, frozen. We’re too late. We have to watch it burn. Staring right at it, I think about everything I own and care about turning to ashes. It’s unbearable. Suddenly, I wake up. Same nightmare again. Sitting on the bed, I think to myself… perhaps it’s better not to have a home so you never worry about it burning down.

Worry

Sleeping in itself is ok, though it feels like an utter waste of time. Imagine all you could do if you didn’t sleep: draw, dance, learn, laugh, talk, travel, and so much more. But that’s not the point. The point is that I hate going to bed because that’s when the thoughts creep in and the inner voice gets louder. It tells you that you are not smart enough, not pretty enough, not talented enough, simply not good enough. I can’t remember exactly when the inner voice started. I think it was sometime around my ninth birthday, a few months ago. Before that, I believed I could achieve anything I put my mind to and become anyone I wanted to be.

Anyone

There are two things I like about going to school: learning new things and getting good grades. Both make me feel really happy! However, there is one thing I don’t like about school: being bullied. It wasn’t too bad at first, just kids being themselves and making jokes about each other. That was until a few of my classmates agreed on a nickname for me. I think it’s mean. They think it’s funny. ‘The whale’ is what they call me now. They point at me and laugh right in my face. They say it, sing it, rap it. It’s not just one or two of them, the entire class uses it, even the one who just yesterday told me I was her best friend. Even her. She is one of them now, pointing and laughing. I wish I could liquefy and disappear.

Disappear

If only I could jump on a plane to a place where no one knows me or at least not as the largest marine mammal on earth. I can’t bear the thought of not having friends. I feel left out and alone. I need to find a way to make them like me again. Every swimming day, I cry before going to bed and then again in the morning. Mum asks why but I don’t want to tell her. It’s so embarrassing. What if she thinks they’re right? After all, maybe I’m as fat as they say.

Fat

I guess it’s a fact, I’m fat. Food is everything to me. It’s my best and only friend now. If I’m happy, I eat chocolate to celebrate. If I’m sad, I eat cookies to make it better. If I feel empty, I eat to fill the void. If I’m full, I eat more because I’m greedy. I know it’s wrong, so I eat in secret after school. Please don’t tell Mum and Dad... The more I eat, the bigger I become. The bigger I become, the more bullied I am. The more bullied I am, the more I eat. Never-ending vicious cycle. I don’t know how to break it. Every day, I wish I could escape this harsh reality. Or perhaps I could slim down as I get older? Not a bad idea. So one night, after yet another horrible day at school, I decide to add it to my mental ‘grown-up’ list which now reads:

• Travel the world

• Become fluent in English

• Never lose Boutchou

• Be skinny and beautiful

• …

Repeating these in my head one by one as I fall asleep, I feel as though the list is missing something: a dream job. What do I actually want to do when I grow up?

Dream

We’re watching television as a family one night. I’m ten and I absolutely love TV! Watching it is a weekend treat. During the week, the rules are strict: no TV and no sleep overs, just homework and reading. That’s the theory anyway. I’ve convinced Martine to let us watch the fun kids’ programmes once we’ve finished our homework and before Mum and Dad come home. Plus, I know she won’t be around for that long. I’m getting old enough to look after my sister. I can’t wait to do my homework in front of my favourite shows. I’ll have to make the little one swear she won’t tell, but I think that will be easy. I’ll just threaten to hit her. I’ve followed this through before and I can tell she is scared. Well, that’s only when Dad’s not around, because if he is, she screams and I’m the one who ends up receiving the blow. Smart brat. Anyway, tonight is not like that. It’s a lovely evening and for some reason, there and then, I’m sure of it. So I turn to my parents and say: One day this will be me. The lady I’m pointing at is the famous French newsreader Claire Chazal. That’s it: my dream job is to be a journalist on TV. Imagine, I could travel the world, learn so much and meet thousands of amazing people! Plus, everyone would watch me on their small screen. They would be forced to take back all their mean words then. There’s no doubt about it. One more for the list:

• Travel the world

• Become fluent in English

• Never lose Boutchou

• Be skinny and beautiful

• Be a journalist on TV

• …

Now I need to find out how to turn my dreams into reality. It seems to happen in all the Disney© movies so there must be a way.

Reality

In my family, everyone is some form of scientist. Not that they have Einstein’s haircut or anything like that, but they are either engineers or doctors and are factual and rational. Granddad, who lives in the United States, is a famous researcher and a professor in chemistry. I’ve always wondered if it’s his job that makes him so cold and arrogant or if he was born this way. Both my parents are successful engineers. Even my cousin, who’s three years older than me, has already decided that’s what she’ll be when she grows up. In this environment, I stick out like a sore thumb with my dreams of reporting, presenting, writing and travelling. Sometimes I can’t help but think that I was adopted or swapped at birth. I don’t belong to this family, to this house and to this life. That’s one of the things I tell Dad when we argue. It makes him even angrier, but I can’t help it.

Angrier

I’m angry. I’m angry because I feel trapped. Trapped within this small town. Trapped within the fattening body that is mine. Trapped within my conflicted mind. So I scream, I insult, I hit. My sister, my parents, the walls, anything that’s within reach becomes a target. What makes me so angry? Why can’t I be a normal 11 year old? How can I escape?

Escape

Today I’m in Venice with Granddad, Step-Grandma and my older cousin. I love being abroad. I love exploring a new city. I love eating all the Italian food I want. Venice is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen! Behind every corner there is something new to discover: winding waterways full of gondolas, St Mark’s Square covered by thousands of pigeons, Rialto Bridge and its countless little shops... Just after midday, the four of us hop in a taxi to a local restaurant. There, we sit outside waiting for our lunch to be served. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and the murmur of the wind in my ears. I grab a bunch of hair and stick it in my mouth. I don’t know when or why I started doing that. There’s something reassuring, relaxing and soothing about it. My mind starts to wander, when suddenly and surprisingly Step-Grandma decides to tell me off for eating my hair. She says other people have died from it because some hair ended up blocking their airways or stomach or something. I no longer recall the exact details of her argument and, to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I’m not listening anymore. I can feel the heat of anger rising in my belly, like a volcano just before an eruption. Who does she think she is? She is not my Mum. She is not even my Grandma. She has no right. But I know these words are dreadful. There would be no coming back from saying them out loud. So before the anger strikes, I stand and I run away.

Run

At first, I run as fast as I can. When I can’t see them anymore, I slow down a little. Walking swiftly along the streets of Venice, which are completely foreign to me, I feel free and in control of my destiny. I look for sign posts and I recognise shops and junctions. I’m twelve. I’m an adult. I can do this, is what I say to myself quietly and it works. I have no idea how, but I find my way back to our hotel. Luckily, I kept a room key in my pocket. I sit on the bed and at first, I’m so happy and proud. I made it! I didn’t get angry and I showed her not to mess with me. But as the minutes tick by I start to realise what I’ve done, and guilt consumes me. This is not the first time I’ve run away. I’ve done it before back home. In a pointless desire to avoid the anger, I flee. I just disappear for a few minutes, hours, up to an afternoon. Naively I think my family might love me more when I come back. It seems to work in the movies so why wouldn’t it work in real life? Well, where I’m from, it simply doesn’t. My parents become so irritated instead. I think they don’t understand that in those moments it would just be worse if I stayed. I would say and do things I’d later regret. And regret is one thing I don’t want to have. Ever.

Regret

By the time Granddad, Step-Grandma and my cousin return to the hotel, I feel so bad about what I’ve just done. Understandably, Step-Grandma is annoyed but what’s worse is Granddad’s silence. Not a word. Ashamed, I apologise quietly. Disappointing someone feels so awful. That night, hiding under the hotel’s fresh sheets, I promise myself that in the future, I will always warn those I love before I leave.

Warn

As soon as I turn eighteen, I will leave home, I tell my parents after I return from the trip. Six years’ notice is plenty, isn’t it? It might sound harsh but is it cruel if it’s the truth?

Truth

The truth is, I have no idea what it means to leave home or where home is in the first place. As I lie on my bed tonight under the beams of my bedroom ceiling, listening to the rain pouring on the skylights, I wonder how this could be home when it doesn’t feel like I belong. My eyes are wide open. I can’t sleep. But as I finally drift away, dreams of adventures and discoveries come to life. A few hours later, my alarm rings and brings me back to reality. I sit up on the bed and look at myself. I’m not fit. I’m far from beautiful. I’m not that smart. I’m nobody. Why would my dreams come true? I most certainly don’t deserve it so, why would I be so lucky?

Lucky

Mum is Protestant. Dad is atheist. Sometimes I pray to God. Sometimes I wish for luck. To be honest, I think I’m actually pretty lucky! My family is healthy and caring. I live in a lovely house in a small town in Normandy. I’m bright at school, never top of the class but never far from it either. I do various extracurricular activities: dancing, tennis, music. I go away on holidays; sometimes somewhere in France, other times further away. Perfect.

Perfect

That’s the perspective I get when I force myself to look at the bigger picture. Doing so feels like pulling my mind and my body apart, as if I were able to look at myself from above and smile. I wonder if other people do that too. Do you? Or perhaps it’s just me. But recently it hasn’t been easy. I’ve just been feeling really unlucky and self-pity has kicked in. Last year, I broke my left wrist in a poor attempt at roller-skating, and just last week I twisted my right knee in an even poorer attempt at snowboarding. The knee is worse because doctors can’t seem to be able to figure out exactly what’s wrong. I’ve been to orthopaedists, sports specialists and physiotherapists. I’ve had x-rays, MRIs and even an arthroscopy. I spent a few weeks on crutches at school. It was fun, at first, walking with your arms and being asked by everyone if you’re ok. But after a couple of days, I was already bored of it. I know my knee could be a lot worse and I’ll be ok soon, but last night I had another nightmare. I was 30 years old and in a wheel chair. I woke up sweating, shaking, and decided that if I can walk, I must walk; if I can run, I must run; if I can move, I must move. This morning, that went straight onto my ‘grown-up’ list:

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