It was after the implosion of the Howard Dean for President campaign and during Katrina that The Han and I sold our home in the hills of Berkeley, CA, packed up our belongings into two shipping containers (later shipped back and consolidated into one) for our farm in Venezuela, in the Andean Foothills.
Other than the daytime paradise of our farm (and nightime Hell of it), life for me went into a nosedive from which I’ve not fully recovered. While leaving the U.S. seemed to be a no-brainer given all evidence of the upcoming real estate collapse, the corrupt politics, and otherwise demographic implosion brought about by the maturation of my fellow “Baby Busters”, I left for the wrong country with the wrong man.
Today I’m hoping for a do-over, which at my age and with my baggage may well be overly optimistic.
Recent events in my life which I’ve only touched upon in these pages tell me that punishment is going to be my life going forward regardless of which country I call my home, like it will be for so many others. I’ve recently had my privacy and quietude (such as it is given that I am still in mourning for Axel) disrupted on a scale impossible to relate publicly to strangers in a manner easily believable. I therefore am forced to largely confine my accounting of the events to people who I already know and who otherwise have come to understand that my largely unbelievable life experiences are absolutely true. These latest events are merely the latest chapter of my life as, effectively, The Forest Gump of female transcended former teenaged runaways, given my impressive record of entirely coincidental brushes with historic events. Meanwhile, I’m more of a cautionary tale than a role model for young women, despite being the submissive woman of the late Dominant male extraordinaire known as Axel, and thereby the envy of many of my contemporaries.
In terms of my future romantic prospects, this last is a liability on many levels in terms of my status as an “Alpha Widow”. I therefore have to operate on the assumption that I will remain alone and likely celibate, wherever I may choose to live.
I have come to the conclusion that no matter where I may be, I will always be an “other”; therefore, living in a different country might actually be easier for me given that “foreign” behavior on my part will be expected rather than a surprise. Given that the U.S. is particularly ridden with a need for conformity (in contrast to the movie-cultivated “individualist” archetypes promoted), I believe that I would be better off elsewhere, whether Europe, Central or South America, Asia, or some place such as Eastern Europe where I’ve never been.
Since I expect to one day recover but a portion of what The Han stole from me, I eagerly look forward to expatriating that very modest windfall to more amenable environments, where one’s inflated food budget isn’t considered a moral weakness when it is concentrated on local, quality ingredients, rather than say dedicated to Walmart. This is just one of many values I harbor which are out of step with U.S. norms whether I live in the city or in the country. I’m adapted to either environment or “anything but the suburbs”.
At my age, however, striking out alone would probably be an invitation to prey on me, as a representative of the most privileged class on Earth: White Middle Aged American Woman. I therefore welcome suggestions from my readers as to which organization I ought to attach myself to which can assist in my quest for more welcoming pastures, where I won’t be tarred and feathered as a heretic, or otherwise singled out for punishment by the womanfolk with or without using their men as proxy.
Meanwhile, my plan, as soon as I can sell my home within my proven-to-me hostile environment, is to move to The Florida Panhandle, a.k.a. “The Redneck Riviera”. Should I happen to find myself seduced and claimed by a manly enough “redneck” I might decide to remain rather than flee; however, I am also open to joining forces with another aspiring Ex-Pat desirous of one such as me with experience in the expatriation process. Becoming a sales representative of a cigar brand is another option which appeals. Becoming the assistant/editor to another writer such that I would give “Caprizchka” a proper burial is yet another balloon I float.
Alternative suggestions are welcome here.