I was born in the Bronx. Our family moved around and by the time I was 11, I had lived in 10 different places all over the US. I was like that commercial – I’ll never live in the suburbs, I’ll always live in an apartment, I never want to be far from a metropolis. But halfway through the nevers, I met my husband Brad and 10 years later found myself in a pole house, on a hill, overlooking the South Pacific, on an island in Fiji.
For about 14 years it sounded like a good idea. Then we decided we were over it, and would move back to a more traditional life in the US. We still own a resort on an outer island in Fiji, but our jobs marketing and taking reservations can be done anywhere where we have access to the internet. So the search was on for our perfect American home.
Originally we lived in Southern California for 10 years before our move to Fiji, and we knew that this was no longer our cup of tea (or kava, to be Fijian about it.). So we traveled about and had a list. We knew we wanted to be westerly (although I’ve long had a penchant for Portland, Maine and I could still see myself in a gorgeous apartment in Manhattan), so we took the “list” – Colorado, Oregon, Montana, Idaho, Washington – and did what we do – we researched and compared notes.
Montana was immediately out for me. Too, I don’t know, just too. Too much mountain mannish. Idaho was out for Brad. I don’t know why, but it didn’t call to him. We loved Oregon, our son lives in Seattle, and I was really crazy about Colorado. But after talking to our accountant, who advised us that Washington state was our best option, we flew up there, with the intent of finding our version of the next best thing.
Initially wanting to buy a bed and breakfast, we joined our realtor, John, for 10 days of homes – homes that were bed and breakfasts, homes that could be bed and breakfasts, and after a few days of that, just homes.
I NEEDED to be close to Seattle. I NEEDED city life. Brad needed acreage to plant a garden.
So, after 9 months, I still wonder, how did this happen? I am living on a 16 acre farm. With 20 chickens! and fenced pastures where Brad wants to put cows and a pig (A PIG!) and some goats, and acres of blueberry bushes and fruit trees. Me …whose criteria for a move was always “where’s the nearest Nordstroms.” Where chickens come wrapped nicely, 6 thighs per package. And where nature and the wild was always something to be respected, and appreciated, but not to be someplace that I actually lived. Camping? Nice – now let’s go back to the hotel.
But you know … I kinda like it. I’m getting there. And think that by writing it out (the former journalist that I am) it will actually bring me closer to … well, what? The great outdoors? Maybe. Sanity? Maybe. Chicken poop? Definitely.