THE LONG GOODBYE

I hate goodbyes. They’re awkward. As an introvert, I fret over them as I sense them approaching. Will there be a hug? Is this a handshake moment instead or is that just weird? What do I say? Every word matters...to me, at least. At larger gatherings, I try to slip out unnoticed. Don’t want to interrupt the flow. Don’t want to call attention to myself. And then it all spirals back to that hug versus handshake thing.

So maybe the timing of this one is a big mistake. It stretches back four months and there’s another four to go. Goodbye, Vancouver. Goodbye British Columbia.

I suppose the first serious thoughts of leaving popped up in June or July, back when I plummeted into my most recent round of deep depression. Mired in wicked, unrelenting despair, I knew it wasn’t the time for making big decisions. I was struggling to make it through life in ten-minute intervals, fighting what felt like another looming psych ward admission. Despite all the fog, what was clear was that I wasn’t thriving here. No longer working, I was becoming more isolated when the whole reason I’d moved back to the city after a decade in a rural environment was to become more connected. Epic failure. That “fool me twice” expression came to mind. I’d left Vancouver because things weren’t working. Why had I thought things would be different the second time around?

I always love my time in Ottawa.

In August, having weathered my internal storm, I flew to Ontario on an exploratory mission. I’d narrowed down my “next stop” Canadian options to Ottawa and Toronto. Ottawa is prettier, closer to family, an hour from the family cottage and much more familiar to me. Aside from a few blips, I’ve visited the city every year of my life. I’d come close to moving there a couple of times in the past. I really didn’t know Toronto at all despite living my first thirteen years in nearby Hamilton. Ottawa seemed the favorite, Toronto the dark horse. And yet, after an afternoon back in Ottawa, I knew it was too small. I knew I’d often feel disappointed, leaning on my aunt and cousins. Their social lives are well established. It’s one thing for them to make time for once-a-year visits; it’s quite different being around all the time. As I still hold out a shred of hope for falling in love again, I also knew that the gay “community” always seemed teeny tiny. Yes, it only takes one guy, but I need to at least start with a fair-sized pool. Ottawa was off the list.

It's Toronto or bust.

The list was no longer a list. One city. No pressure, Toronto. My first impression was positive. My hotel seemed to be on the edge of a sketchy area but, only a block away, things improved significantly. I walked for hours that first evening, strolling down busy Queen Street, observing how it took on a different vibe every few blocks, eventually finding my way to Lake Ontario. It was clear that the city lacked the shine of Vancouver or even Ottawa but what I liked about Toronto from the outset was the international feel. I like the bustle of big cities and this place felt alive. I spent the next couple of days trying to be cautious, for once looking before leaping. Could I really see myself living there? In a word: yes. It was worth a try. This would be where I’d try to restart my life, a scary yet exciting prospect for a fifty-five-year-old single gay guy who knows absolutely no one in the city.

Still, for a couple of reasons, I didn’t just want to ghost Vancouver. To avoid mortgage penalties, it would be best to target the sale of my condo for April 1, 2020 but, more than that, I wanted Vancouver and me to part on good terms. We’d had a rocky relationship. A friend of mine who loves the city and says he’ll never leave cringed when I described Vancouver as hollow—pretty exterior, nothing inside. Yeah, harsh. I wanted to spend my final months enjoying the city’s best.

In some ways, I feel like that guy who hangs around at a party after everyone has left and fails to take a hint when the host slips into a unicorn onesie and a pair of bunny slippers. You still here?!

I continue to run my favorite routes around Stanley Park and along other water-adjacent paths. I bike to Deep Cove, to a beach area near the airport and uphill to the University of British Columbia. I even did a 140-kilometer round-trip bike ride past my favorite views on the Sea to Sky Highway to Squamish. All this is what lured me here twenty-five years ago. There are worse places to fail.

I also wanted to use the city as a base to fit in a few final weekend road trips—Victoria, Tofino, Whistler, Seattle, Portland, the Oregon Coast. I’m also trying to get to some of my favorite restaurants one more time. That’s a little trickier because many of them are vegan and it always feels like I’m putting my friends through a traumatic ordeal when we go to one (if I can convince them to go at all).

The time remaining seems too long, yet I know it will wind down quickly, especially with me being away at least a month for more travel. There will come a point when I’m not so much living in the city as leaving it. Maybe it’s hit already. Yesterday I did my last workout at my gym. (My membership was up for renewal and they offered me a monthly rate three times what I pay on an annual basis to stay on four more months. Five years of business and the sales rep kept throwing in extra fees. “You might as well just pay for the full year,” he said. Nonsense!) The day before I had drinks with a guy I’d dated for a while. As we left, he said, “See you soon.” In my head, it was goodbye. We’re casual friends now, the kind for whom you need six-month gaps just to have enough to talk about. (For the record, I went with a hug, not a handshake.)

My condo doesn’t feel so much like a livable space anymore; not for me, at least. It’s transitioning into a sterile environment. Last week I had a couple of real estate agents in and I picked one to go with for listing the property after the holiday season. I’ve parted with forty shirts so far, stuffing them in the clothing donation bin. I awakened in the middle of the night, wondering if I should fish out a Ted Baker piece, one that I’d bought three years ago and only worn once. Then I envisioned myself on the six o’clock news: Guy Gets Stuck in Clothing Bin. Okay then. Goodbye, Ted.

Just how many veggie hot dogs can I

eat in the next four months?!

There’s still more paring down to do. I have a vanity full of half-used gels and shampoos, all a testament to my eternal quest for a product that will actually lead to shiny, bouncy, fuller hair. (Why did I think it would be a good thing for my head to smell like a grapefruit?) The back of my fridge is getting sparse as I’ve been reaching in and pulling out long-expired jars of chutney and salsa. I’m trying to plan meals to use up whatever I can. I do love cumin, but why did I buy the lifetime supply size of it? How did I get all these mustard containers? Honey mustard, Dijon, sweet onion and something now branded as “Classic Yellow”. Give the whole French’s marketing team hefty Christmas bonuses, I say! And then there’s my apparent fear of running out of a certain breakfast food. If I throw an oatmeal party, will anybody come?

Still four months to go. I’ve lived in twenty-three different places as an adult. By god, this may be the first move for which I’m not frantically stuffing odds and ends into garbage bags at 3 a.m. on moving day. I tell myself I’ll be ready this time. In may ways, I’m ready now.