Isn’t it strange how the very thing you want to escape from can grab a hold of you and try to keep you in it’s clutches? It’s like that with me and tv. Just when I’ve made the commitment to take a break from it, I can’t seem to shake it off. And my dream of trying to live a different kind of life with my family came dangerously close to turning into one of those awful reality tv shows.
In keeping with the style of bad tv, I’ll start with the back story, build an arc to create tension and suspense and then resolve the crisis, rolling the credits and letting you get on with your day.
Opening shot: Haines as a young woman in journalism school, fade to photos of her working in radio and tv, including one very quick shot of her anchoring disaster at CTV. Fade to photos taken over the last four years with a voice over detailing how proud and honoured she is to have hosted a two time gemini awardwinning talk show.
Up tempo music with narration over images of her impossibly handsome, sexy, sweet, adorable husband Steve, working as a set decorator on major tv and film projects in Toronto.
The arc builds as Steve and Avery realise they have everything but aren’t fully living their lives. They contemplate a drastic move to India, where Avery spent her childhood, but chicken out and settle instead on the much less extreme Costa Rica . The tiny central american country has great memories. A long ago wedding proposal. A recent month long family vacation. No army. Kind people. Relatively easy language to learn. Great weather.
The plans move fast. The car is sold. So is the house. 6 acres of land, overlooking the Pacific, purchased in a little town called Mal Pais. That’s right. Bad Country. And it’s near Montezuma. As in Montezuma’s revenge. The duo refuse to focus on images of bad countries and diarrhoea and push on.
The little fishing/surfing village is nestled along the coast [lots of shots of howler monkeys, huge iguanas, armadillos, red crabs] It is very remote. About 5 and a half hours along nasty roads to the capital of San Jose. And that’s IF the roads don’t wash out during the rainy season. [ roll wild west music with dust storms and huge craters] There’s no hospital. No post office. Not even a bank. But there are unbelievably friendly locals, a strong expat community of surfers and yogi’s and more than a few tasty restaurants, with an organic market on the beach every Saturday morning.
But if this were a reality tv show, we wouldn’t focus too much on all of that. Because good and happy is boring. Instead we’ll cut to the crisis: Will we put our dream for sale. Are we willing to exploit our adventure for money. And because reality tv is rarely real at all, we’d have to alter our dream as well. Become a little cartoonish. The screaming wife, the angry husband, the naughty children,. The funny bits of us trying to learn the language. The inevitable tears and frustrations. Fast paced edits with the obligitory shots of sexy surfers and sunsets on the beach.
There would be 2 cameras and a sound person following us around for the first 6 months, as we try to set up a home, make friends, create a community. It could pay for our adventure. But would the money be worth it?
And I so badly wish I could say we dismissed outright the proposals that came our way. That we slammed down the phone. Deleted the e-mails. But the truth is, we talked to a couple of producers. We were tempted. Steve and I even fought over it. But in the end it was pretty obvious to both of us.
I have no doubt that it would have been fantastic tv. And even though we contemplated it, the decision to say no wasn’t tough. Anyone who’s watched even one reality show knows that there’s no winning.. We would have been seen at our worst. . Our lives edited and chopped and twisted to create the necessary elements for a good show. And we would have done it only for the money.
Steve asked me if writing a column was exploiting our experience as well. I guess in a way it is. Except I love to write. I have control. And I can edit out the parts that make me look especially bad. Crisis resolved. Roll Credits.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Walnut Oil
What is it about my brain that has me fixated on walnut oil and silverware. There are a million things to think about as we move our life from Canada to Costa Rica. Thousands of things to sell, get rid of, give away. And for some reason when I try to process all that needs to be done I keep coming back to the walnut oil and silverware. Do I take them with me? Give them away? Store them when/if we come home?
No psychology degree here and yet it’s clear: If I leave the small stuff unresolved I don’t have to deal with the big stuff. All my books--including too many that are on the still -to- read shelves. Our winter clothes. The bicycles. The strollers. And what about all those lamps and vases and bowls. The art on the walls, more specifically the incredible photos I had framed while in the throes of grieving my dads sudden death. The images he snapped while whisking us on around the world adventures. My favourite is one of me, of course. I am about 5 or 6. I am sleeping naked in a semi circle, with a scrawny black cat stretching from my toes to my head, completing the circle. We are lying on a rumpled white sheet, a discarded child’s swimming mask off to the side. The composition is breathtaking. The soft black and white is bathed in the love of the picture taker--my dad. I remember that day--driving in a rickety old car through the streets of a small island in Malaysia. Someone --sensing my crazy love of animals -thrust the little black cat through the window and into the car. I begged to keep her, and we did.
There’s another photo, it must have been taken on a tripod or with my dads arm extended. It’s of my mum and dad, in the early 70’s when we lived in India. They are beautiful and vibrant, arms around each other. My mum wearing big sunglasses ,a newspaper peeking out from under her arm. My dad, his long brown hair dancing on his shoulders. They are so confident and sure. Chins uplifted, the world ahead of them. It’s that picture that comes to me in my moments of doubt. They lived their lives, with three kids in tow, without the need for conventional success or long term goals . They traipsed from New York to New Mexico. From New Delhi to Washington D.C. And then, strangest of all, to Smooth Rock Falls and then Fenelon Falls, with side trips to far flung countries around the globe. The hill stations of India, Sri Lanka, Japan, Thailand, Indonesia, Italy Greece, France.
And it is that childhood that I focus on when I jolt up in the middle of the night, panicked by what’s in store for my kids. Will they be able to handle the move, make new friends, learn the language, cope with the urban-to-rural culture shock. And in those moments I realise that the parts of me that are good and strong didn’t come from safety or the security of routine. They were born from travel, from adventure and being thrown together as a family to work things out. Because we moved as one, and didn’t have the luxury of splintering off. We had each other.
My friends think our move is brave or gutsy. But really I think it was predestined. It’s what I was meant to do. Most kids in their teens and twenties try to shake off their upbringing by rejecting convention and scouring the world to find themselves. I did the opposite. My rebellion was to have a plan. To plot my career. To be a grown up. I got married early, had three kids. Now I am in the final moments of my 30’s and I feel surges of passion to give my children all that I was given as a child. In the process I will , in my own way, recreate my parents’ journeys. Seeing the world with their imprint but through my own eyes. This move to me, feels like going home. Back to my roots.
Steve had a very different upbringing and so it amazes me that he’s up for this challenge. He grew up in a small town, in a lovely family with their fair share of financial hardships. For as long as I’ve known him Steve has had his eye on the prize. Working hard, earning a lot, making sure our future was secure. And I love him for all of that. But I love him even more now for being so quick to give it all up and start over.
The walnut oil will go to my friend Emily. The silverware, which I have no attachment to except for the need to have something to eat with, will come with us.
No psychology degree here and yet it’s clear: If I leave the small stuff unresolved I don’t have to deal with the big stuff. All my books--including too many that are on the still -to- read shelves. Our winter clothes. The bicycles. The strollers. And what about all those lamps and vases and bowls. The art on the walls, more specifically the incredible photos I had framed while in the throes of grieving my dads sudden death. The images he snapped while whisking us on around the world adventures. My favourite is one of me, of course. I am about 5 or 6. I am sleeping naked in a semi circle, with a scrawny black cat stretching from my toes to my head, completing the circle. We are lying on a rumpled white sheet, a discarded child’s swimming mask off to the side. The composition is breathtaking. The soft black and white is bathed in the love of the picture taker--my dad. I remember that day--driving in a rickety old car through the streets of a small island in Malaysia. Someone --sensing my crazy love of animals -thrust the little black cat through the window and into the car. I begged to keep her, and we did.
There’s another photo, it must have been taken on a tripod or with my dads arm extended. It’s of my mum and dad, in the early 70’s when we lived in India. They are beautiful and vibrant, arms around each other. My mum wearing big sunglasses ,a newspaper peeking out from under her arm. My dad, his long brown hair dancing on his shoulders. They are so confident and sure. Chins uplifted, the world ahead of them. It’s that picture that comes to me in my moments of doubt. They lived their lives, with three kids in tow, without the need for conventional success or long term goals . They traipsed from New York to New Mexico. From New Delhi to Washington D.C. And then, strangest of all, to Smooth Rock Falls and then Fenelon Falls, with side trips to far flung countries around the globe. The hill stations of India, Sri Lanka, Japan, Thailand, Indonesia, Italy Greece, France.
And it is that childhood that I focus on when I jolt up in the middle of the night, panicked by what’s in store for my kids. Will they be able to handle the move, make new friends, learn the language, cope with the urban-to-rural culture shock. And in those moments I realise that the parts of me that are good and strong didn’t come from safety or the security of routine. They were born from travel, from adventure and being thrown together as a family to work things out. Because we moved as one, and didn’t have the luxury of splintering off. We had each other.
My friends think our move is brave or gutsy. But really I think it was predestined. It’s what I was meant to do. Most kids in their teens and twenties try to shake off their upbringing by rejecting convention and scouring the world to find themselves. I did the opposite. My rebellion was to have a plan. To plot my career. To be a grown up. I got married early, had three kids. Now I am in the final moments of my 30’s and I feel surges of passion to give my children all that I was given as a child. In the process I will , in my own way, recreate my parents’ journeys. Seeing the world with their imprint but through my own eyes. This move to me, feels like going home. Back to my roots.
Steve had a very different upbringing and so it amazes me that he’s up for this challenge. He grew up in a small town, in a lovely family with their fair share of financial hardships. For as long as I’ve known him Steve has had his eye on the prize. Working hard, earning a lot, making sure our future was secure. And I love him for all of that. But I love him even more now for being so quick to give it all up and start over.
The walnut oil will go to my friend Emily. The silverware, which I have no attachment to except for the need to have something to eat with, will come with us.
Wednesday, June 7, 2006
How the dream started
So, we got rid of the in-denial SUV--You know the one. The kind you pay through the nose for because NOT owning a mini van is the only thing that keeps you from forever losing even a semblance of your pre kid life. The Volvo xc90--designed to trick the pseudo hipsters like me? Well, it’s gone. Now I use a bicycle to get around. And I am stunned by my sense of freedom. Wind through my hair, legs pumping, heart racing.
And, two days ago we sold our house. Bought it for 234 thousand dollars just over a decade ago when Riverdale was the place west enders went when they couldn’t afford the Annex. Gone for more than a million. Signing the real estate papers makes me feel even freer than handing over the car keys.
And now I’m looking around at all the stuff we own and realise it too must go. Good-bye to the white leather sectional couch, the flat screen built in tv, the deco cabinet, the mission dining room table. Even the lamps, the thousands of dollars of suits that cram my walk in closet all meant for a career that I’ve put on pause. So long to the high heeled shoes, the gorgeous winter coat, the hundred dollar pillows, the fancy coffee maker.
I have not gone bankrupt. I am not getting divorced and I am not entering a monastery.
But I am giving up this life to try a new one, at least for a while. Like a bolt of lightening I have been struck by the fact I have become too comfortable in my comfort. Trapped by my trappings. And I feel a huge urge to turn things upside down. Forget about investing and amassing and consuming. I want to divest, downscale. Live now and use less.
I’m also increasingly worried about speed. Not the drug, but the pace. Espcecially for my children, who seem to be in such a hurry to grow up. Everything happens so fast. and I want (to try) and slow it down. The pressure to be something else feels even more offensive when you see your children falling prey to it. My 10 year old Riley already thinks he’s a teenager and wants a cellphone, Eminem cd’s and even asked for a blackberry(!) the other day. My five year old Eva spends too much time in front of the mirror and, like so many other girls her age, seems overly focused on the exterior. And I overheard my 2 year old (a boy, by the way) say he wanted a “belly shirt” the other day, a desire picked up from his sister.
Thank god my husband Steve is feeling the same way about all this. And so ...we’re all moving to Costa Rica. We bought 6 acres of land on a mountainous jungle overlooking the Pacific ocean. There are howler monkeys in the trees, boa constrictors in the grasses and stick insects and scorpions on the walls. There’s a little international school on the beach where the first rule is “No throwing mangoes”. Rule number two: no going to the ocean by yourself.”. The uniforms; surfer shorts and yoga skirts. Friday afternoons are set aside for surfing.
The small fishing town reminds me of a tropical wild west. A dusty strip with shacks for stores. Some surf shops, a falafel hut (!) and a chicken joint. A couple of small supermarkets, a bicycle rental shop, a place to buy booze. Fishermen selling the mornings’ catch on the beach every afternoon. And when you need something a little more refined, the main drag is book ended by a couple of beautiful boutique resorts that occasionally draw some high profile celebrities--like Gwyneth Paltrow, Mathew McCaughney and that supermodel Giselle, looking for the ultimate seclusion.
And the beaches? They go on for ever...some stretches have the most beautiful sugar sand, others are crusted with hardened lava, creating perfect tide pools for small ocean creatures. The days are slow. The weather is almost perfect. The people are friendly.
I know all this sounds too good to be true. Even in the telling of our plans I realise I am painting only a partial portrait. This may be a dream, but my eyes are wide open. I am not expecting some kind of perfect trade in. Exchanging the big bad life of materialism, consumerism, superficial success and snow for a pure life of tranquility, enlightenment, selflessness and sun. . I know that a snap shot of paradise changes once that two week vacation is up. The images of palm trees and beaches, surfers and girlie drinks start fading fast when paradise becomes your home.
It’s been 6 months since we made our decision to move to The Rica, as Steve now calls it. And the road from dream to reality is a funny one. My feelings most closely resemble those howler monkeys swinging from the trees on our property. Secure and determined while hanging on the vine,. Exhilarated and terrified but still keenly aware of the destination in the moment before grasping the next vine. Right now, as I hang between vines, I feel liberated and freed by my divestment's. Excited by the possibilities. I have a strange tingle in my stomach. The same sensation as when I first realised I was in love with Steve. It’s the feeling of being loved and in love. But more than anything it’s the feeling of being alive. Really alive.
And, two days ago we sold our house. Bought it for 234 thousand dollars just over a decade ago when Riverdale was the place west enders went when they couldn’t afford the Annex. Gone for more than a million. Signing the real estate papers makes me feel even freer than handing over the car keys.
And now I’m looking around at all the stuff we own and realise it too must go. Good-bye to the white leather sectional couch, the flat screen built in tv, the deco cabinet, the mission dining room table. Even the lamps, the thousands of dollars of suits that cram my walk in closet all meant for a career that I’ve put on pause. So long to the high heeled shoes, the gorgeous winter coat, the hundred dollar pillows, the fancy coffee maker.
I have not gone bankrupt. I am not getting divorced and I am not entering a monastery.
But I am giving up this life to try a new one, at least for a while. Like a bolt of lightening I have been struck by the fact I have become too comfortable in my comfort. Trapped by my trappings. And I feel a huge urge to turn things upside down. Forget about investing and amassing and consuming. I want to divest, downscale. Live now and use less.
I’m also increasingly worried about speed. Not the drug, but the pace. Espcecially for my children, who seem to be in such a hurry to grow up. Everything happens so fast. and I want (to try) and slow it down. The pressure to be something else feels even more offensive when you see your children falling prey to it. My 10 year old Riley already thinks he’s a teenager and wants a cellphone, Eminem cd’s and even asked for a blackberry(!) the other day. My five year old Eva spends too much time in front of the mirror and, like so many other girls her age, seems overly focused on the exterior. And I overheard my 2 year old (a boy, by the way) say he wanted a “belly shirt” the other day, a desire picked up from his sister.
Thank god my husband Steve is feeling the same way about all this. And so ...we’re all moving to Costa Rica. We bought 6 acres of land on a mountainous jungle overlooking the Pacific ocean. There are howler monkeys in the trees, boa constrictors in the grasses and stick insects and scorpions on the walls. There’s a little international school on the beach where the first rule is “No throwing mangoes”. Rule number two: no going to the ocean by yourself.”. The uniforms; surfer shorts and yoga skirts. Friday afternoons are set aside for surfing.
The small fishing town reminds me of a tropical wild west. A dusty strip with shacks for stores. Some surf shops, a falafel hut (!) and a chicken joint. A couple of small supermarkets, a bicycle rental shop, a place to buy booze. Fishermen selling the mornings’ catch on the beach every afternoon. And when you need something a little more refined, the main drag is book ended by a couple of beautiful boutique resorts that occasionally draw some high profile celebrities--like Gwyneth Paltrow, Mathew McCaughney and that supermodel Giselle, looking for the ultimate seclusion.
And the beaches? They go on for ever...some stretches have the most beautiful sugar sand, others are crusted with hardened lava, creating perfect tide pools for small ocean creatures. The days are slow. The weather is almost perfect. The people are friendly.
I know all this sounds too good to be true. Even in the telling of our plans I realise I am painting only a partial portrait. This may be a dream, but my eyes are wide open. I am not expecting some kind of perfect trade in. Exchanging the big bad life of materialism, consumerism, superficial success and snow for a pure life of tranquility, enlightenment, selflessness and sun. . I know that a snap shot of paradise changes once that two week vacation is up. The images of palm trees and beaches, surfers and girlie drinks start fading fast when paradise becomes your home.
It’s been 6 months since we made our decision to move to The Rica, as Steve now calls it. And the road from dream to reality is a funny one. My feelings most closely resemble those howler monkeys swinging from the trees on our property. Secure and determined while hanging on the vine,. Exhilarated and terrified but still keenly aware of the destination in the moment before grasping the next vine. Right now, as I hang between vines, I feel liberated and freed by my divestment's. Excited by the possibilities. I have a strange tingle in my stomach. The same sensation as when I first realised I was in love with Steve. It’s the feeling of being loved and in love. But more than anything it’s the feeling of being alive. Really alive.
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