SIZE ISN'T EVERYTHING

The countdown is on. In five weeks, I leave my rural incarnation of solitary confinement and return to Vancouver. And one sudden thought rushes to mind:

Maybe I should have rented.

Yes, I bought a teeny, tiny condo. It’s all I can afford in the Vancouver market. It’s one reason I left the city ten years ago.

I’d given Vancouver an eleven-year run. It hadn’t been the right fit. I have always been a big believer in “no regrets” and in never taking a step backwards. But, in truth, there weren’t many options. I am about five years away from my earliest possible retirement and moving to another province (and another pension system) seemed utterly impractical. I have applied to return to the U.S. where I earned two degrees and lived for sixteen years, but U.S. Immigration has my application sitting in a giant slush pile in some basement of some decaying government building. I’ll likely be retired—maybe even dead—before my number comes up.

It was Vancouver by default. Not exactly a rousing endorsement. I’ll make do. Hopefully, I can even thrive. But my current state of All Quiet on the Dating Front has led me to believe that there remains an ambivalence imbalance. The breathtakingly beautiful city is more indifferent to me than I am to it.

In the dating realm, the conventional thinking is there will be more opportunities in Vancouver. Really, how could there not be? But, as anyone will tell you, size isn’t everything. An emphatic “meh” from a significant metropolis can sting more than nonexistent shoulder shrugs from nonexistent gay men in the boonies. I stand to be rejected for me rather than for my home. That’s a scary prospect.

I am starting to wonder if I am simply not a Vancouver kind of man. I’m not outdoorsy enough. Heck, I don’t even own a pair of hiking boots. I have never gone to a yoga class. (No doubt, I’d be a terrible distraction to the instructor. I am stretching. I swear.) And I can’t even name the current coach of the Canucks. Maybe the Vancouver shunning is justified. If only it could be remedied by stocking up on Lululemon gear and traipsing through mud.

On the dating site OkCupid, I rarely get a sniff from a Vancouver guy, even though I state that I live close to the city. In fact, of the last dozen men to “Like” me, not one is from Vancouver. Instead, I’ve piqued some interest in two small towns in Florida, Brooklyn, Palm Springs, a place I’ve never heard of in the U.K., a tiny dot on the map in Missouri, Singapore, Portland, Seattle, Pasadena, Toronto and Panama City. The last ten guys to send a message were from the Philippines, Singapore, Redhill (UK), Calgary, Washington, D.C., two from London and three from Seattle.

Typically, people run dating searches within their geographical area. My results show that either they really don’t like me in Vancouver or I am more attractive when viewed from far, far away. Maybe both. Not very encouraging. I suppose there is that other possibility that single gay men in Vancouver aren’t terribly serious about finding someone. Maybe solo hikes up the North Shore Mountains are all they need to satisfy the endorphins. Perhaps the whole lot is a passive posse. That’s not helpful either for an awkward, shy guy like me.

Yep, I bought in Vancouver. It’s a grand gesture. Do you hear me, Vancouver? This is called commitment. I’m settling in. And already I feel unsettled.

Just what is the immigration policy for Panama anyway?

THE FUTURE IS CALLING

The caller ID showed it was my mother. I let it go to voicemail. After all it was 9:30 a.m. and I was in the midst of writing in Santa Monica’s trendy Urth Caffé. This was no slight to Mom. I just couldn't handle news about someone dying sitting in such a public setting. Yes, that’s where my mind went. I got that kind of doomsday thinking from none other than Dear Old Mom.

How could it be anything else? My parents only call on weekends. I don’t know if calling rates are still higher during prime weekday hours, but that’s been the established practice. Weekends or, if absolutely necessary, after 5 p.m. during the week. Who died?

When I stepped out to feed the meter, I listened to the message. Something about Homeland Security. She needed me to call. Oh, no. Was I added to the no-fly list? Back when my novel was published, I signed up for Google Alerts to let me know whenever my name was mentioned online. I was hoping to be linked to (glowing!) book reviews, but alas, my name is rather common and, as it turns out, people who share my name die a lot and commit terrible crimes. If I was banned from flying, it was a case of mistaken identity. I’m the author, not the murderer. We’d get things cleared up, but would that happen before my scheduled return flight to Canada? What a nuisance.

Obviously, the creative writing spark had been extinguished for the day. Summarily spit upon. I drove back to the place where I am house-sitting and called Mom. No roaming charges. They taught me to be telephonically responsible.

I was way off. Good thing, too. All the relatives were still alive (as far as we knew) and there didn’t seem to be any glitches to my flight plans. My writing may not have garnered raves, but it hadn’t led to a transportation ban.

So why the call? Why the mention of Homeland Security? Thirty-two months ago, I got my parents as American citizens to petition to sponsor me for a visa to move back to the U.S. It’s been a frustrating process. Not really a process because nothing had been processed. The Immigration Department’s website stated its goal of working through petitions within five months; however, the estimated wait time kept increasing—last I checked it was forty-seven months! (With that kind of gap, I think they should delete the goal from the site. Why accentuate poor performance?) Needless to say, I’d stopped obsessing over my chances of moving back. I’d stopped griping about the concrete, miles-high barrier that stopped a person who’d lived sixteen years in the U.S., gone to high school there, obtained two degrees there and been admitted to the California Bar from re-entry. Out of my control. Just like the entire TV setup at the place where I’m staying. Forget about it. Learn to live without.

“They’ve approved the petition,” my mother said. And then she went ahead and read the entire letter. All I heard was “approved” followed by “blah, blah, blah.” I got the part that mattered.

And so it begins. There is no guarantee of what is to come, but the visa process shall finally begin…within thirty days. Yes, a real process! I realize that the whole thing will take longer than I would care to speculate—let’s just go with a year or two—but I may have options about relocating. Not just dreamy, rueful notions but real options!

Return to Los Angeles?

As Tim said on the phone last night, “Sounds like you’ve got a special connection with the city.”

Yes, Tim. The guy I just started dating only weeks before my extended summer stay in L.A. The guy with whom I’d like a “special connection”. And, yes, that complicates everything.

But it’s still early. Lots can and will evolve in the months to come…regarding my visa status and regarding my dating status. A few months ago, I felt I had no options. In anything. I had no control. Nothing ahead of me. How strange to think I may have things to look forward to. There may be a conflict to come, but it is a luxury to have to a choice to make.

Let’s see how it all unfolds.