HOME OR AWAY

“It’s so nice to be home.” I hear so many people say it. It feels like I’m supposed to say it, too. But my mind is muddled.

 

Even under normal circumstances, I’m not sure I can make the expected statement. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve discovered how much I love to travel. My partner, Evan, calls me Gulliver. Most often, it feels I’d rather be away than at home—even with the glitches that come and only feel worse when in unfamiliar places. On this most recent stint away from home, Evan and I dealt with three days of flight cancellations in New York City and I had car issues on remote areas of highways far from any significantly populated locale. (When I finally took my car to a dealer in Denver, they quoted me $6,000 in repairs. The book value of my aging Mini Cooper isn’t even that much!) 

 

I returned to Vancouver three days ago after two months and three days away. Admittedly, I felt relief when I crossed the border, reentering Canada after so much time in the U.S. It wasn’t the politics that I was glad to be away from; rather, it was the steep exchange rate that made me squirm every time I bought a coffee—or anything—on American soil. My bank account has taken a huge beating…even without shelling out money for all the “needed” car repairs. 

 

I both smiled and groaned as the stations on my car radio suddenly played an inordinate number of Canadian songs. Canada has laws requiring that 35% of music played is Canadian. Not only does that mean continuing airplay for classics by Alanis Morissette and Corey Hart, but there are also mediocre ditties by acts that are entirely unknown in any other country. 

 

I felt shame, sadness and anger as I neared my condo in what is known as Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside where unhoused people camp out on sidewalks and people with serious drug addictions openly use lighters and glass bubble pipes to get their next high. Trash is strewn all over. Even passing through Portland and Seattle on the way back—cities reputed to have similar problems—the scope of this crisis appears so much greater in Vancouver, a place that regularly ranks high on lists of Most Livable Cities.

 

Bryce Canyon National Park

As I unloaded the car and unlocked my door, there was no smile. Not once since I’ve been back have I thought, “I’m so glad to be home.” At first, I thought it was just because I was exhausted from five days of driving back from Colorado, a journey that still managed to include exploring three national parks and a significant detour to do a jog on a favourite beach on the Oregon Coast. 

 

Pure joy comes from jogging
Nye Beach on the Oregon Coast.

Except for that darned exchange rate and the fact that living out of a suitcase grew tiresome (socks and underwear seemed to get sucked into the deepest, darkest depths of my Samsonite), I’d rather be in Colorado still. 

 

Biking back in Vancouver

It’s not because I think Colorado is better than British Columbia. I have a clear preference for being in Canada where everything feels more understated and where my introverted nature doesn’t seem to stand out as a “problem.” I have established routines here that I discovered help me be more productive as a writer. Yesterday morning, I arose at sunrise (5:15 a.m.) and hopped on my bike to cycle around the city’s crown jewel, Stanley Park, as three cruise ships entered the harbour. I only had to share the seawall with the occasional jogger and oblivious Canada geese. I extended my ride through False Creek, past Granville Island and into the more pristine neighbourhood of Kitsilano, stopping a few times to snap pics of flowers in bloom that I hadn’t seen while I was away. Yes, I enjoyed the excursion and appreciated the city. That had been the point. I needed to create my own Welcome Back boost. 

 

Meeting a couple of Evan's
new neighbours

But still, my head and heart continue to think of Colorado. Of course, it’s because that is where Evan lives. During my two months in the state, he transitioned to a new job which required a stressful housing search and a move from Denver to the Roaring Fork Valley, an area best known for the resort town of Aspen. I knew this move was a possibility in the fall and, at that time, I came across a CNN article which stated that Aspen was the most expensive place to live in the U.S. Evan lives twenty-five minutes away in another charming small town, but the move resulted in a raise in his rent and a significant downsizing with sixty percent of his belongings going into storage after giving away so many other possessions. 

 

Fitting in a hike after 
Evan's workday

This is the second time I’ve helped Evan move from one place to another in Colorado. This latest move felt so much bigger. The move a year and a half ago had only been several hundred feet, from a shaded apartment to one with more sunlight and a balcony. Being there for most of the process this time made it seem like our move. It’s his place, to be sure. While I had a shelf in the bedroom closet and another in the kitchen at his Denver apartment, I only left four shirts on hangers in his new studio. There simply isn’t room for me to leave more. 

 

Biking the local canyon

Still, that little studio, so beautifully adorned with a more curated collection of All Things Evan, feels more like home than my loft space in Vancouver. I was settled there for only nine or ten days before the long road trip back, but Evan and I tried out a Thai restaurant on Main Street (four blocks from his home), ate twice at a Middle Eastern place and stocked up on plants from the local nursery. I checked out several coffee shops as possible writing spots, I worked out with the locals at the rec centre and I biked up and down the valley, getting to take in the area in more intimate ways than one can ever do in a car. With one main roadway running through the valley, I already feel more grounded there than I ever did in Denver. I like it better, too…for the more scenic bike paths, for scenery in general and for the fact that I have a clear picture of Evan’s life there until I get to return in October.

 

Yes, three days back and I’m already looking ahead. As small as it is, that charming studio apartment feels like where I belong.   

FURNITURE VOWS

I suppose it’s fitting that the first thing I write on my laptop while stretched out on my new sofa is about the sofa itself. After all, it took nineteen months to arrive.

That’s not the fault of a delivery truck driver. They only made me wait four and a half hours. And it’s not because a furniture warehouse burned or a vendor went bankrupt or some temperamental maker kept fussing over the fluffiness of the seat cushions. The delay was entirely my doing…by not doing.

When I moved back to Vancouver after an ill-spent decade in Nowhereland, I gave away all my furniture other than my bed. Technically, a little cash changed hands for a few items—fifty bucks for the six-month-old $900 chair, a twenty for a $500 mirror. (Perhaps the best decision I ever made was against pursuing a business degree. I’d have flunked out of college.) I just wanted everything gone. Moving from a three-bedroom, two-level house to a 570-square foot condominium, I knew things wouldn’t fit and, besides, the size and scale would be off. (Or, at least, I think that’s what home décor folks would say.)

In truth, there was a darker reason to chuck everything I’d amassed by the age of fifty-one. I wasn’t set on staying in Vancouver. I wasn’t set on staying anywhere. I remained firmly uncommitted to life, ready to succumb to the undertow of a persistent, profound depression. I held off buying furniture in case I mustered up the guts to jump off the Second Narrows Bridge, leap from the roof of my 28-storey building or swallow a bottle of whatever pill I could track down at the recommendation of a savage Internet troll. I wanted any aftermath to be with minimal inconveniences. My parents live 2,200 miles away. Why task them with posting my wares on Craigslist? They’d first want to figure out who the hell “Craig” is and what happened to the apostrophe and space in his business name. (I wonder myself.)

But sometime in the spring, I had my own reawakening. There were breaks between lows. Sometimes I’d go a whole day without thinking about suicide. I didn’t feel good, but feeling ambivalent was several rungs above where I’d been. I started to believe I might stick around. And that’s when I dared to walk into a Crate & Barrel. Didn’t buy anything—too soon—but I found myself drifting into other furniture stores in the months that followed. Sometimes I’d get sidetracked by funky credenzas or bold prints on pillows, but I knew it all had to start with a sofa. I still wasn’t sure if I could commit.

How long do people stick with a sofa? Longer than any of my past relationships, no doubt. A decade? Two? And still that nagging thought: Who will have to get rid of it?

I put off the couch quandary throughout the summer, instead pouring any extra funds into trips—the Oregon Coast, Ottawa, Dublin. If I spent recklessly, I wouldn’t have to think again about furniture possibilities until 2017. 

But somehow, in changing jobs, I came upon a small cash windfall. I still had money in my bank account by summer’s end. And then I walked into another furniture store with a friend as we waited for a Ramen noodle place to open for dinner. I looked. I touched fabric. I surprised myself by liking two models. My friend sat on one and noted it felt comfy. I tried it out. Was orange too kitschy? Then he waved the ring of other fabric options in my face. The sales guy swooped in and mentioned a half price three-day sale later in the week. That was our ticket out the door. It wasn’t quite the right time to buy. I had time to talk myself out of it. Surely I’d have second thoughts. Maybe even dark ones. My condo could retain its open space character indefinitely. I could go longer with a clunky plastic office chair and a stool that doubled as my dinner table. The sofa was too big a decision. It had come to represent too much.

Over the course of that week, I lowered my expectations. Happiness was too lofty a goal. Feeling stable was good enough. I celebrated by going off both my meds. And then on Friday night, the last day of the sale, my workload seemed to increase as quitting time neared. My co-workers gleefully filed out while I tapped away on my computer, with the finish line for my must-do project pulling farther and farther away. I eyed the salesman’s business card and chucked it in the recycling bin.

Slowly I began to make progress with my work. I solved the snags or found ways around them. Hours after everyone else had left the building, it was my turn to begin the weekend. No plans. Just me and all that condo emptiness. Driving home, I thought of the one that got away. Sleek, clean lines, steel gray. So much better than a wooden stool. And with rush hour over, I made better time as I crossed bridges and darted by drivers with too fixed mindsets of speed limits. (Merely suggestions, right?) I began to feel that sense of elation that comes after running two yellowish lights in a row. I set my sights on getting to the department store before closing.

Yes, I wanted that sofa.

And so, just like in the movies where the doubtful bride or groom makes a mad dash to the altar, I raced to The Bay. I arrived fifteen minutes before closing. (What was the rush?!) I clomped up five escalators and marched straight to one sofa, then the other. Both decent home companions, by the decision became clear.

I choose you.

And so here I sit on my new sofa. Ironically, it’s not the one I thought I chose. Did the salesman err or did I? This is what happens when a year and a half decision gets crammed into the final moments before, “Attention shoppers, the store is now closed.” It seems fitting that I should end up with the bridesmaid. I’m not about to send it back. We were made for each other.

This extended time sitting feels right. My butt and my back feel pampered. I can even feel a nap coming on. A future day home with the flu seems like something to look forward to. But it’s more than the obvious comfort that comes with what some of us in Canada refer to as a chesterfield. From my sofa, I see things differently. I have stopped several times while writing to gaze out my window and marvel at my water view. (It’ll go away with pending condo development, but so what? This is now.) I’ve watched the November sky change countless times in the past hour. The clouds darken and then seemingly softer, white ones drift into the mix. There have even been blinding moments of sunlight, a rare sighting at this time of year in Vancouver.

I see the walls of my living room differently. I glance at the empty floating shelves and realize they should come down. I don’t need them. I don’t want them. It’s exhilarating to have an opinion. I’ll have to Google how to get wallpaper off the wall the sofa rests against. The previous owner proudly told me he ordered it from Belgium and it is classy, but it clashes. (What does that say about my style choices?) I’m wondering about my next purchase. Coffee table? Desk? Maybe I can still find those flashy pillows. It’s a lot to take in. There is so much more to do.

Seems like I might be here for a while.

MOVIN' ON UP

I’m feeling like George and Weezie.

Bought a condo in Vancouver. My days as Rural Gay are numbered. I move April 1^st, no foolin’.

Looking out the condo. So long, ocean & mountain views.
 

There are a couple of things about the Vancouver real estate market that you may not know. First, everything is ridiculously expensive. Second, listings sell seemingly instantaneously. Both factors came into play regarding my new home.

Last week, I contacted a family friend who is a Vancouver realtor and gave her a list of a dozen condominiums I wanted to see. After selling my house, the plan was to rent an apartment in Vancouver. See if this was really the place for me. I’d fled the city before; best not to get tied down. But I wanted to do my due diligence. Get a peek at the condo market, affirm my decision to rent.

On Sunday, I took the ferry over to view seven places. (The others had already sold.) I had one clear favorite, one possibility and five nos. “I’m not ready,” I told my agent. “And I know the one I like will get offers tonight. It’s just too soon.”

While on the ferry home, my agent called. I was right. Two definite offers coming in, with a third as a possibility. Was I interested?

Of course not. Too soon, remember? I hadn’t even worked out the financials. No pre-approval on a mortgage. This condo was less than one-third the size of my house AND it cost more. With competing offers, I’d have to put in an offer above the asking price. As a Vancouverite, I’d played that game before. It’s not fun. Pass.

And yet I found myself fiddling with a mortgage calculator, all too accessible on my handy iPhone. Things looked feasible. I called my agent back. “Let’s do it.”

The next hour was a frenzy. I ran from the ferry terminal to my house and then zipped to work to print, sign and scan the offer. And then I waited. I hope I get it. I hope I don’t.

Sure enough, at 10:30 p.m., the buyer accepted my offer.

Yippee!

Yikes!

I didn’t sleep that night. My god, what have I done? I’ve spent more time contemplating a sweater purchase. Seriously!

I’ll be living two blocks from the poorest area in Canada. For many reasons, that’s where I think I want to be. I’m not a NIMBY guy. I don’t want problems out of sight. I want to see them, understand them and be part of a solution. I spent nine days last spring in a hospital alongside people from this area. I feel a calling. I need to be there.

Or do I?

How will I live in such a small space? Do I really want to live according to a series of bylaws by a potentially overzealous group of condo owners? Didn’t I swear I’d never live in a box again?

At work, the doubt rose as people asked me about the condo. What kind of floors does it have? I don’t know. Does it have window coverings? I don’t remember. Do you like the bathroom? Beats me.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

But now I’ve had a chance to go back and get my bearings. A block from Starbucks and movie theaters. I think I knew that. A park across the street. Yes, I saw it—just didn’t realize it was so close. The reality of 570 square feet is setting in. I’ll get to keep my bed and a nightstand. Everything else is too bulky. That lovely designer chair I bought last fall? Nice knowing ya. Naturally, it will be tougher parting with beloved sweaters, but some will have to go. I must have enough room for my twenty-six pairs of Converse. As for my treasured vinyl record collection from the ‘70s (that I haven’t played since the ‘80s), well, I’ve got ten weeks to figure that out.

I am reminded of the reasons I chose to go rural in the first place. So much space. But space also came to mean distance.

Soon, I’ll be immersed in density and 24/7 people watching. This evening, while waiting to walk—WALK!—to a restaurant for dinner, I was warmly greeted by a local seated on a bench outside the Starbucks: “Hey! Don’t fuck around with me.” Okay, so not all people like to be watched. Duly noted.

A change is gonna come. I’ll take the city and all its grit. For now, it’s feeling like the right decision.

IF THE SHOE DOESN'T FIT,...

It starts with a pair of shoes. They are covered in dust bunnies—dust elephants, really. I hold them over a wastebasket, clean them up and then set them atop my office desk. It’s time to reflect.

Italian leather, according to the label. I bought them because I’d never seen plum colored dress shoes for men and, wouldn’t you know it, I already had a plum colored belt. I don’t remember when or where I purchased them. I have a vague recollection I paid more than I could afford—a Carrie Bradshaw splurge before I’d ever heard of the fictional icon. Whenever I wore them, they gave me power. Forget the ruby slippers, Dorothy! I was stylin’ and daring, the only man in the room venturing beyond ho-hum shades of black and brown.

Alas, those days are long gone. I don’t wear leather any more, having had my vegetarian principles questioned too many times by savage, sushi-loving, rib-gnashing friends. Vegan shoe (and belt) styles and colors are woefully limited and uninspired. For now, I cope knowing that no one in my rural environs seems to notice anyway. Gumboots are the rage. I could walk around in duckie slippers without feeling the least bit self-conscious.

Is it just me or do others seem utterly dumbfounded when waking up one day and suddenly realizing a pair of worn in shoes is actually worn out? Even after a casual cleaning, it is clear to me that I must have worn this pair of shoes at least a dozen times too many. They’re scuffed up, the leather is pinched and creased at the toe and the shoes seem to lean inward. They are unfit to be donated; they are done. And so they go, reuniting with the dust elephants in that wastebasket until trash day.

Yes, it starts with one pair. As I anticipate moving to the city (soon?!), I know I have much to do in preparing for a major downsizing, going from two-level house to cramped bachelor suite. On to my olive loafers. I only hope to find a way to quicken the nostalgia. Good thing I’m starting spring cleaning in February!