Second Act

Trying desperately to find my way through to some sort of redemption

I’m at the Brazilian cafe up the hill from my cute little flat on E. 32nd Street. It’s called Paulista, and they serve freshly-made, still-warm-from-the-oven empanadas and great coffee, and they’re spacious, and the morning sun spills in. The music is good, and best of all, it’s 8:31 a.m., and there’s almost no one here, while the tottering “cafe” with the tar-like coffee next door is packed. So, this place is like a secret, even though it was recently on a Best Places to Work list. I think that’s because the space held a series of restaurants that faltered, and then it came in under the radar. I honestly don’t know how they survive, but I’m certainly glad they’re here. I understand (and can see) they also serve draft beers in the evenings — maybe that’s when the crowds come. Anyway, it’s great to have discovered a place with easy, free parking nearby, great music, and a chill attitude that doesn’t make me feel like a pariah if I stay for two or three hours to work.

That’s a good thing—I have good things in my neighborhood. I met a friend at GhostTown Brewing last night for dinner. We shared their tremendously yummy kale caesar and fish tacos and each had a pint-and-a-half of a smooth German pilsner, which unfortunately gave me the sneezes and the congestion that most alcohol seems to visit upon me these days. And yet, still I drink — not a lot, but more than my body seems to prefer — a topic for another time. And one that’s frequently on my mind.

Things are okay here… but I hanker to go. To leave. Again. I’ve been here before. I’ve been here often in my life. I’m always hankering to live abroad, yet, aside from my childhood, I’ve actually done precious little of it. Which is odd since I’m fortunate to possess an Irish, i.e., EU, passport and can work legally in much of Europe.

It’s brutally expensive here in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I feel bad about spending money every single day. Just now, $9 and change for a triangle of empanada and a single coffee, and that’s not even egregious. I know you know what I mean. But, it’s still too much, considering how much I’m earning, to put me in the “Saver” category.

And save I must if I really want to live abroad for a couple, few, or even several years.

There is much that entices me, but a few important factors trouble me.

I mean, let’s state the obvious, shall we? The country feels like it’s teetering. It’s not a fun time at all. Free speech has become quaint as has so much else about “democracy” in this bitter time. I’m not a political writer so I won’t say much more about this, but what’s a normal person to do? When I was in Mexico City in June, I struck up a conversation with a German man in line at a bakery in Condesa. He said, You should get out while you still can.

I laughed and said, Yeah, I know, right?

He stared at me. I said, Wait, are you serious?

He said, Absolutely.

I’m mad at myself because I was talking about “moving to Spain” ten years ago. I literally spent 10 years perusing real estate, constantly remarking to my family about how “affordable” it was (yes, I’m one of those). Well, that’s no longer the case in Spain’s current sizzling real estate market that the government is trying desperately to calm down. I missed the moment again.

But, my son stops me. Hogwash, he says (that’s not the word he uses). The only time you ever have, Mom, is NOW. Do it NOW if you want to do it.

Do it.

Do what?

Leave.

Right. There are lots of good reasons, number 1 being, I like living abroad, very much. But having done it before, I also know that at the roughly nine-month mark, when I’ve learned my new neighborhood and settled down a little bit, I can become… antsy again.

I find I miss my dear old friends. I miss the Bay, the ocean so close, our mountains which people here call hills, but which I hike and know are mountains. I miss the diversity here. I love how, in my current apartment in the tiny Tuxedo neighborhood of Oakland, a multitude of languages drift into my windows as folks walk by below. I love that.

I love that a few years ago, I stumbled upon a Hmong family roasting an entire sheep’s head on the grill at the one of our local parks. I love all the festivals and pop-ups, and of course all of our superb Mexican food, and Salvadoran pupusas, and the like.

And, you know the saying: Wherever you go, there you are by Jon Kabat-Zinn. No truer words were ever said. I bring my troubles with me. If I want a different life, it will take more than changing continents. It will take courage and commitment and daring.

It will take hard work, and money.

And that’s part of it. Money. I just don’t feel I have the safety net I need to try this yet.

And yet. I’m fucking 57 years old. If I don’t have it now, if I can’t do it now, I think I can hang it up.

My friend S. recently said, That’s not true; you can go any time.

But I see what’s happening to my older friends’ knees, hips. I see them coming down with cancer, so much cancer, so many friends afflicted. I see the Parkinson’s, the MS, the cognitive decline.

Why do I think I will escape it?

Of course, I won’t.

It’s not life span we’re talking about here; it’s usable years. Years that can still be enjoyed. Where I can still walk around, eat with (some) abandon, drink (a little), date, love, laugh, explore, try things. Dance…

Ah, dance. I haven’t danced since B. arrived. That’s eight months.

Eight months of mania we endured.

I blocked him last week and have no intention of opening that channel. I’m sorry about it, but I’m done. I’m certainly done with verbal abuse. I’m also done with the trauma of trying to help a mentally ill family member WHO DOESN’T WANT HELP.

So, yeah. Continuing to work on co-dependence.

However, I can obviously work on all of that abroad.

I have so many thoughts piling up in my mind, like a logjam. I can barely sort them out.

For example, it occurs to me on the regular that while I may feel like I’ve missed the boat (economically, financially) to Spain, it could get worse — a lot worse. It seems inconceivable, but there’s a possibility, hopefully slight, that many, many more Americans will not just want to leave the country, but will have to. How bad is this going to get? As we all know, it’s head-spinning how “effective” you-know-who has been in driving his agenda. And nauseating.

I like so much that I hear about Spain.

I’ve wanted to work on my foundational Spanish for years.

I believe I can have a (possibly much) better quality of life there.

My friend A. who moved to Mallorca said, “We should have come ten years ago.”

My pets have died, my kids have flown the nest, I got B. off the street and into an affordable apartment, after years of effort.

My work is done.

But, paying for the escapade... That’s another matter.

I have to work during these “bridge years” before I can touch my retirement fund (which is far less than it ought to be, but hey, it’s certainly better than a sharp stick in the eye). The four-plex I bought with my son will start cash-flowing as soon as we get a tenant for the main unit I was in until two months ago, but the cash flow will be pretty paltry for now. I have a little cash flow from my Guido house, but most of that goes toward property taxes, insurance, and maintenance.

So, I’m what they call cash-poor, and believe me I feel it.

HOWEVER, I did get a great client for a side project a couple of months ago. If I can keep that up, I’ll be doing better and able to save. It’s urgently important that I do so.

My son encourages me to go another direction, however. He says, Mom, there are many places in the world where you can live well on $2100/month.

I had a beer with my Sri Lankan friend S. last week. She said, You can live well in Kandy for less than $2100/month. And the internet is great. Check it out.

I did check it out, dear reader, and wow. Kandy, Sri Lanka looks literally like a fantasy, like something out of Disneyland, or much better, actually, of course, as it’s real and not plastic. It’s hard to get to, but that’s part of the appeal.

My son says, Just go and write. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted to do?

And there’s the rub, of course. I cannot admit to myself or anyone else that I have “always wanted to write” because, the fact is, I haven’t done it, whether through dire fear, massive disorganization, low confidence, or what have you. Sure, I raised two kids largely alone, took care of their dad for years, and have been working like a dog since eighth grade. But that’s no excuse, and I know it. I’ve had plenty of time to “write the memoir.” I promised my daughter I would write a memoir. I promised my dad’s girlfriend Jody, who died during the pandemic. I promised myself.

It doesn’t really matter why I haven’t done it. Lots of people are busy. I do have the time. Instead, I binge-watch “Breaking Bad” (it really is great).

And yet. A part of me believes that if I could just get away and relax, for at least a month, but preferably six, I could make some kind of important turn inside myself.

If I could feel less haunted, less scared about money, less… less-than…

These are all psychological and personal development problems, and what makes me think if I’m afflicted with them here, I won’t be afflicted with them there, wherever “there” is?

And yet, I am tired.

I was wondering why I feel like I’ve had no vacation in a long, long time, and you know what? It’s because I haven’t. I spent the two weeks in Mexico City working, with the added stress of making sure it could not be detected that I was over the border and making sure my WiFi worked perfectly, etc., etc. You know the drill.

When I was unemployed and looking for work, I did nothing even remotely vacation-like. Quite the opposite. I spent every day seized by terror, looking for work on the ridiculous LinkedIn, and coming up shorter than short.

I’m supposed to be grateful I have work now, and I am, to a degree. I know I’d feel worse without it. I know that’s true because when my new friend SB said, Just quit, and I did, I had to go groveling back. I was lucky they gave me my contracting job back, but I resent the low pay and being surveilled. I’m too old for this.

And yet. I haven’t figured out how to fix it. I haven’t figured out how to escape.

That leaves me at the current moment, casting about, unsure of what to do. Trying to come up with a smart retirement strategy, live my dreams, and not panic.

It’s not my best life.

My work is cut out for me. It begins with breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Notice I’m breathing in. Notice I’m breathing out. Walk more. Commit to my yoga practice. Nurture my friendships. Get off the phone. The usual. We all know the list.

But, it works. I know it does. I do believe a little clarity can break through if I allow it to.

I know this because I’ve walked in the forest three times this week, and it’s a healing experience. The forest and her utter stillness entrance and sooth me. It’s not immediate. Sometimes when I begin my hike, I’m impatient, annoyed. By by the time an hour has passed, an hour beneath, alongside, and among the redwoods, the buckeyes, the oaks, the bays… An hour breathing the aromas of damp earth, the distinctive briny scent of our fog that’s skudded over the ocean to be caught by the soaring crowns of our redwoods, the sweet, slightly medicinal scent of bay… I’m restored. Grounded. Calm. Hopeful.

I guess the real question running throughout this post, these thoughts, and my life is the struggle between gratitude and striving. How can I be both grateful and want more? Are those compatible? This feels embarrassingly elementary, but I find I do veer wildly between these two poles. Dunning myself for not being sufficiently grateful. Then dunning myself for not being sufficiently ambitious, visionary, disciplined.

Anxiety. Working on anxiety, on relaxing, on accepting, on noticing—and challenging cognitive distortions. Actually, if I can get better at that last one, I think I may be home free. Sometimes, I have a glimmer of a feeling that my mind is cluttered up by lots of things that are not only not serving me, but are preventing me from moving forward, or moving at all. It’s like a house overstuffed with massive pieces of dark mahogany furniture, boxes, and vestiges of the past. The halls get narrower and narrower until even chinks of light blink out.

I have two garages to clean out. I have my mind to clear out. I have my Self to forgive, to exalt, to celebrate. I have perhaps a few more years of (enjoyable) life.

Why not get to it?