Friday, January 30, 2009
Any time now, say within the next 6 to 260 months, we will give thousands of dollars in slightly frayed suits to any charity with a truck, check "yes" to convert all our paper statements to email, and turn out the lights. We'll hop in a Dulles Airport taxi, stomachs churning, checking for passports and ATM cards. A few giggly beers and many miles later, we'll stop at the top of the staircase on wheels, breathe in the warm, moist, frangipani/jasmine/gardenia air (depending where we land), and pity the poor, pale tourists. Because we aren't going home.
We've (okay, I've) been preparing for the moment for years - maybe forever. Definitely since 1979 when I stepped off the plane in Cartagena, Columbia with my Spanish Club classmates. If there's a book on expat anything, I've read it. If anyone enters my orbit with a Caribbean experience, I'm on it. I am meticulous, focused, bordering on frantic with all the options on a fast-approaching horizon. But my husband has only one criterion: Can I dive there?
We are perfect together.