|
Yeah the weather is great and the life is easier blah blah blah.
But whenever I spend any extended amount of time their with local family and friends it begins to feel rather quickly just like the small town in VA that I left because there wasn't alot to do for a young person.
A time may come where all i want to do is read, exercise, fish, cook, drink and play cards, but I am not there yet.
>like this woman did: > >http://www.cosmopolitan.com/lifestyle/a39772/why-i-gave-up-a-95k-job-to-move-to-an-island/ > >Why I Gave Up a $95,000 Job to Move to an Island and Scoop Ice >Cream > > >There is a chicken in my shower. It's 8:30 a.m., I've just sat >down on the toilet to pee. I casually glance around and there >it is, drinking some of the residual water puddled on my >shower floor. This is not the first creature to make an >appearance in my bathroom. Since I moved to the Caribbean, >I've had spirited encounters with tarantulas, scorpions, and >untold lizards. But the chicken got me thinking. > >"How did you get here?" I ask the bird. It blinks unhelpfully >back at me. Perhaps a better question is, how did I get here? >How did I come to live on a tiny, rustic island of 4,100 >people sharing a bathroom with poultry? > >It all began four years ago. Back then I was living in >Manhattan, a 31-year-old journalist making $95,000 a year. I >lived in a lovely (wildlife-free) apartment in the East >Village, a bustling neighborhood with every imaginable >convenience and so much to entertain. But New York is a >competitive city; you have to spend most of your time working >to afford to live there. And a downside of living among so >many ambitious people is they're often overscheduled. >Sometimes I didn't see my closest friends for months at a >time. Trying to negotiate a time to meet a friend for drinks >was harder than getting into college (and the cocktails about >as expensive). > >It's ironic to feel lonely on an island of 4 million people, >but it seemed I spent my life staring at screens: laptop, cell >phone, iPad — hell, even the taxis and elevators had >televisions in them. I felt stressed, uninspired, and >disconnected. > >"I need a vacation." This was a constant refrain in my head. I >wasn't living in the moment; I was living for some >indeterminate moment in the future when I'd saved enough money >and vacation days to take a trip somewhere. If you're >constantly thinking you need a vacation, maybe what you really >need is a new life. But I was complacent. My life wasn't >satisfying, but it was comfortable. > >One day I was working on my laptop, finishing some edits on a >book I'd just written. I was distracted, wondering what I >would do now that the manuscript was finished. While I had >several job offers, none of them excited me. I let my hands >idle too long and the screensaver, a stock photo of a tropical >scene, popped up. Here was something to get excited about. >What I wanted — something I'd fantasized about for years, in >fact — was to stop living in front of a screen and live in >that screen, in the photo on my computer. And why couldn't I? >With no professional obligations or boyfriend, I was >completely untethered for the first time in my life. > >Feeling slightly ridiculous, I posted a message on Facebook >saying that I wanted to move to the Caribbean, and asking for >suggestions as to where I should go. A friend's sister >recommended St. John, the smallest of the U.S. Virgin Islands. >Nicknamed "Love City" for its famously friendly locals, it was >home to some of the most stunning beaches in the world. I >glanced out my window where punishing, chest-high snow drifts >were forming on the ground at an alarming rate. On the >sidewalks impatient and preoccupied New Yorkers bumped into >each other without apology. I immediately began expediting my >passport. > >It was startlingly simple to dismantle the life I'd spent a >decade building: I broke the lease on my apartment, sold my >belongings, and bought a one-way plane ticket. The hardest >part was convincing myself it was OK to do something for no >other reason than to change the narrative of my life. > >"You can't just move to a place you've never even visited!" my >mom protested. > >"Sometimes you just have to leap and the net will appear," I >said with more confidence than I felt. > >Six weeks later, I stepped off the ferry in St. John. I had no >plan, no friends, and no clue how ridiculous I looked, >festively ensembled in boat shoes and a dress celebrating the >palm tree. Yet I had a strange feeling that everything would >unfold as it was supposed to. > >My parents did not share this viewpoint. I come from a >conservative Southern family with a healthy respect for the >American Dream: You worked hard in school, chose an >upper-middle-class job with a 401(k) and a good matching plan. >So they were pretty taken aback when, upon arriving in St. >John, I took a job at the local ice cream parlor. > >"But, but ... you went to Yale," they sputtered. "And you're >31 years old!" > >Perhaps there was something indulgent and Peter Pan-ish about >this new lifestyle. But the truth is, I was happier scooping >mint chocolate chip for $10 an hour than I was making almost >six figures at my previous corporate job. It was calming to >work with my hands. I met new people constantly, talking >face-to-face instead of communicating via email and instant >messaging. When I closed the shop at the end of the shift, my >work was done and my time my own. Besides, I found that not >everyone shared my parents' concern. "When I moved here 25 >years ago, my dad insisted I was ruining my life," said one of >my regular customers when we got to chatting about our lives >one day. "Recently he visited and told me, 'You had it right >all along. I'm toward the end of my life and looking to retire >to someplace like this, and now I'm too old to enjoy it.'" > >Cruz Bay, the island's main town, consists of a few winding >roads and a handful of open-air bars and restaurants. There >are no stoplights on St. John (though we frequently have to >stop for the wild donkeys and iguanas and chickens that roam >the streets). No chain stores. Limited WiFi. Shoes optional. >We drive beat-up Jeeps because no one cares what kind of car >you drive. For those without cars, hitchhiking is common; >after all, we know almost everyone who lives here. We shower >in filtered rainwater collected in cisterns attached to the >house. There are no addresses. (Typical directions to >someone's house are along the lines of, "If you take a left at >the dumpster, I live in the white house at the end of the road >with a broken-down dinghy in the yard.") People gather on the >beaches at dusk to watch the sunsets together. I see my >friends every day. On our days off, we hike the local ruins, >dive, or go boating to the nearby British Virgin Islands. > >These days, I work as a bartender, a job I pursued simply >because it's something I always wanted to try. Sometimes I >think back to the question I used to be asked in job >interviews: "Where do you see yourself in five years?" That >always seemed a depressing notion, to already know what you'd >be doing five years in the future. Here it's not unusual for >someone to work as a cook on St. John, then move to Thailand >for six months to work as a dive instructor, then they will >head off to Alaska and work on a fishing boat. Living abroad >has exposed me to a different approach to life, one in which >you're not expected to settle in one place and do one kind of >job. Perhaps some of us are meant to move around every few >years, change jobs and live many different micro lives. > >That's not to say doubts don't creep in on occasion. Seeing >old colleagues and acquaintances building successful careers >can make me second-guess my choices. One of my friends from >college started a little website called Pinterest. Another >just won an Emmy for a hit television show she created. > >But I have an island. I live in a charmingly ramshackle >one-bedroom apartment on a hillside overlooking the sea. > >Which brings us back to the chicken in my shower watching me >pee. How did it get there? My best guess: It was tottering >around the woods outside, accidentally flew onto my >second-story balcony, and wandered into my apartment through >the sliding-glass door, which I usually leave open to enjoy >the breeze. > >Smiling, I shoo out the wayward bird. Then I pause for a >moment, transfixed by the view framed by my open sliding glass >door. Sunlight sparkles on the water. Sailboats bob >companionably in the distance. The scene is remarkably similar >to the stock photo that was my screensaver four years ago. How >different my life was then. > >There's a quote by author J.R.R. Tolkien that pops up a lot on >T-shirts and bumper stickers sold around town: "Not all those >who wander are lost." > >Lately I've been mulling moving somewhere entirely opposite of >here. Europe, perhaps? There are so many places to go! It >fills me with a sort of wild happiness. Who knows where I'll >end up? And what a marvelous thing that is — not knowing. > >Noelle is the author of the memoir My Year With Eleanor.
********** "Everyone has a plan until you punch them in the face. Then they don't have a plan anymore." (c) Mike Tyson
"One of the most important things in life is what Judge Learned Hand described as 'that ever-gnawing inner doubt as to whether you're
|