It’s official. We are leaving. We depart Vancouver on November 2nd, as the eight-month-long West Coast ‘monsoon’ season reaches full force.
We have pondered the idea of leaving for some years now, not knowing when or how. But in light of recent events and my husband reaching un certain âge, we felt that the time had come to move.
Vancouver is hailed as a most desirable place to live. People from all over the world will give their first-born to settle here. Yet this city with its stunning views has never felt like home to me. My soul has always longed for dilapidated façades, crumbling ruins, and yes, even more ‘dirt’ in the streets. Thankfully, my husband feels the same. The older we get, the more we wish to add patina in our surroundings. So we leave for the unknown. At last we try, before we get too old or too weary of changes.
The plan was to get rid of everything except a couple of boxes of books. At present time, we are heading for 50, and there are still more to be packed. In my infinite wisdom, the first thing I boxed up was our cooking pots followed by our can opener. Hence, our dinners are limited to take-out heated up in the only remaining cooking receptacle, a lonesome reject that has not yet been given away. (Thankfully we have a plethora of restaurants to choose from merely blocks away) I am not exactly sure how we will live the last days, with our dining table and desk gone and our bedding and blankets being shipped on Wednesday. A small challenge…
Rewinding 17 years to a another life: We were leaving LA for Norway, selling everything from our Santa Monica lawn with a baby on my arms. As I fretted over what to take and what to leave, my nanny looked at me, saying. “You know, Karethe, I had a gun to my head and 20 seconds to get out, when we left our home in Yugoslavia.” Her words resonate in me every time I get an urge to complain or bemoan our situation.
Besides, we still have some extra bubble wrap to cuddle up with…