Mrs. Troubadour and I have "living in France for a year" on our bucket list. Not that either of us is anywhere near the age where we have to be concerned with kicking that bucket, but we do plan on making the France thing happen within the next couple of years. If you added up the hours I've spent dreaming about this when I should be writing you'd see that I could have completed a few "War and Peace" sized manuscripts by now.
In regards to making that move, I just finished reading this excellent post from David Lebovitz. Have you ever been in a relationship with an extremely hot but certifiably crazy person? Most of your friends wanted you to end it, but a few understood. You'd defend your romantic choice, of course. "But look how beautiful (let's call this person 'Francis') is!" Or, "You don't know Francis like I do!" I suppose any culture can be infuriating at times, but the French do it with such style that I've no choice but to forgive them.
Paris is so beautiful it's ridiculous. After the initial sensory overload subsides a bit, you begin to notice the little details: the fleurs-de-lis worked into the wrought iron, the artful arrangements of the goods displayed in shop windows, the architectural details of the Haussmannian buildings. Go beyond Paris and venture into some of the smaller towns and villages and you'll still see beauty at every turn. If Paris is the flashy showgirl of France, many of the less populated cities are quiet beauties like the girl next door.