Home Sweet Anywhere Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Lynne Martin

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Vivian Ducas

  Cover image © mattjeacock/iStock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of her experiences over a period of years. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been re-created.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: Packing Up

  Chapter 2: On the Road

  Chapter 3: Mexico

  Chapter 4: Buenos Aires

  Chapter 5: Transatlantic Crossing

  Chapter 6: Turkey

  Chapter 7: Paris

  Chapter 8: Italy

  Chapter 9: Britain

  Chapter 10: Ireland

  Chapter 11: Morocco

  Chapter 12: Return to California

  Chapter 13: Portugal

  Epilogue: Postpone Nothing

  The Learning Curve: Things the Guidebooks Won’t Teach You

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Tim, my muse, my love, and my boon companion.

  Introduction

  Smart people do not loiter at the Colombia Bridge, nor anywhere else near the border in Laredo, Texas.

  Nevertheless, this is exactly what my husband, Tim, and I found ourselves doing at dawn on a sparkling June morning as we anxiously waited for someone to come along and tell us the correct procedure for crossing the border into Mexico. Expats who often made the trip we were about to embark upon instructed us to use the bridge, not the more heavily traveled main border crossing, which is famous for delays and gunplay between drug dealers and border guards. But directions from our unlovely hotel to the bridge had been hard to acquire, and as we struck out shortly after dawn, we were still not sure if we had it right. The freeway intersecting the city was too new for our map, Google was inconclusive, and the hotel staff was clueless. Needless to say, we were a little nervous.

  We’d stayed up too late the night before looking for a route, our iPhones and laptops blazing. It would be a ten-hour trip—provided there weren’t any surprises. We had to time it just right, crossing the border early before the crowds, so we could arrive in the Central Mexican mountain town of San Miguel de Allende before dark. Smart people also avoid roaming around Mexico at night.

  Finally some people arrived and entered the border office building. So we stopped loitering and entered as well to find the employees engaged in a lively recap of their weekend activities. We approached the desk hesitantly, clutching our customs documents. An official, clearly annoyed at our interruption, curtly glanced at our paperwork, relieved us of several hundred dollars for the auto entry fees, banged our passports with a faded stamp, and instructed us to wait for the gate to open so that our car could also be inspected.

  Once again, we found ourselves waiting anxiously for another official to arrive. When she did, the challenge of pawing through our SUV, crammed with luggage and gifts for our Mexican friends, which we had disguised to avoid hefty duty fees, proved too much for her. After a couple of desultory questions, she waved us through the last barrier standing between us and our newly minted expat lifestyle. We were on the road.

  The border crossing marked our first step toward traveling internationally full time and finally living in places we longed to see. For years in our separate lives, we had just dreamed of going to all these places. Now we were finally making it a reality. But even more importantly, our ability to take on the world without a home base full of familiar things was also rooted in the joy my husband, Tim, and I experienced at finding one another again after a thirty-five-year hiatus.

  Our torrid two-year relationship in the 1970s had ended painfully because our timing was wrong. Tim was a brilliant, handsome, sexy lyricist living a financially risky Hollywood existence in the unfettered style of that decade. I was a dynamic tall blond with a demanding career in public relations. We had been friends when we were married to the parents of our children, and when those marriages dissolved for different reasons, we rediscovered one another quite by accident and fell madly in love on the spot. It was a glorious two years, but with two little girls and a ranch-style house in the San Fernando Valley to take care of, I didn’t have the courage or energy to marry Tim and his freewheeling lifestyle, even though I wanted desperately to be with him.

  Thirty-five years later, I answered the door and welcomed Tim into my home. He had phoned a few days earlier, saying he was planning to visit Cambria, the seaside village in Central California where I had lived for fifteen years. I could not have anticipated what happened next. I thought our connection would have settled into its proper slot in my life’s experience. When I accepted his offer to stop by for a brief catch-up, I told myself that he was a former lover from eons ago and now a valued friend, nothing more.

  Not so. The minute I looked at him, the years disappeared. My heart knew that he was mine, I was his. That was all there was to it. We were in serious trouble.

  “I’m so happy to see you, Tim,” I said, smiling. Before he could answer, my husband, Guy, called, “Who’s here?” from his studio downstairs.

  My husband was a well-known illustrator/artist, popular with everyone. We had everything we wanted—a happy, loving marriage and comfortable life, a perfect garden, a terrific kitchen, a working art studio, and great spaces for entertaining. It was idyllic except for one monstrous reality: Guy was succumbing fast to Alzheimer’s disease.

  Tim had arrived on one of Guy’s lucid days. The three of us chatted in the afternoon sun, enjoying the views of the Pacific through pine trees that meander down to the Cambria beach. At that point, Tim had been settled down for years and owned a small electronics manufacturing business, a far cry from his former rock-star days. He amused us with wild tales about that frantic industry. The conversation was going well, but when Tim mentioned that his marriage of twenty years was ending, I felt my carefully constructed world tilt.

  When he left, we parted as old friends should—with a peck on the cheek and a fond hug. We simply could not speak of the obvious. Time would continue to rob us.

  It was an impossible situation. My husband required my loyalty and devotion, and of course my heart still lay with him. We loved each other dearly, and for twenty years I had enjoyed the responsibility of making our lives run smoothly and playing the part of his muse while he pursued his active, successful career as an artist. Watching Guy’s mind slip away was breaking my heart. I needed to stay focused, and yet my desire to never let Tim out of my sight again was equally compelling. I was miserable, afraid, and jubilant. I was in love.

  The next few months were pure anguish. Guy
lost ground every day; finally, for his own safety, our doctor told us that he needed to be in a facility for Alzheimer’s patients. He had reached the point where he needed the level of supervision I couldn’t provide at home. Guy said, as we walked into the common living room, “My dear, what a lovely hotel. Did you know that it’s famous for its restaurant?” I was devastated. He settled in immediately and never inquired about our former life again. Three years later, he passed away—and eventually my new life began.

  The notion of traveling internationally full time came to Tim and me several years later as we sipped drinks on a friend’s terrace in San Miguel de Allende. We were staying in her beautiful colonial house for a month while she was away. By then, we had reunited and eventually married and settled in California’s Central Coast wine country, while traveling as much as we could. A cheerful blaze crackled in the outdoor fireplace as we chatted about where we’d like to go next.

  This conversation presented the perfect opportunity for me to bring up a delicate matter I’d been considering for quite some time. On my next birthday I would be seventy, a huge milestone. That was definitely past middle age (what I had always considered myself, since I was so healthy and energetic), unless I planned to live to be a hundred and forty. With the big day looming, I was feeling restless and frustrated because there were so many places I wanted to go, but not just to go. I wanted to experience living in these places, not only visiting for a week or two. The problem, I had realized in the months since this thought first occurred to me, was our big house, with its accompanying overhead and maintenance responsibilities. Owning it prevented us from leaving for too many months at a time. But since my relationship with Tim still felt relatively new, I’d kept my mouth shut, worried that if I mentioned my secret concerns he would think it meant I was unhappy just being with him.

  But that day in San Miguel, I was so antsy about it that I couldn’t contain myself anymore. I took a deep breath and said, “You know, Tim, I don’t want to upset you or hurt your feelings, but I have to tell you this. I’m not happy living in Paso Robles. It’s not you, God knows, but I’ve realized that there are a lot of places I need to see before I’m too old. I’m just not ready to quit exploring the world yet, and a three-week vacation just isn’t enough travel for me. I think we need to figure out how to be away more than we’re at home.” I closed my eyes to avoid seeing his expression, terrified that he might misinterpret me, that he would think I was unhappy with our life together.

  Instead, he roared with laughter. “Oh my God, we’re on the same page! I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing for months, but I was afraid you’d think I’d lost my mind. I thought you wouldn’t consider leaving the house and the grandkids.”

  I stared at him in disbelief—and with that, our plan was born. We would “unretire” and find a way to move freely around the world, soaking up the sights and places that had been gathering dust on our never-ending bucket lists. That night, we stayed up too late, gleefully chattering about short-term plans, long-term plans, how we’d get there, where we wanted to go, and on and on. Our hearts hadn’t been so light in a very long time. It felt like a miracle that we were united in this notion of fulfilling our dreams of being home free, experiencing the world. Anything seemed possible. I could imagine pawing through the tomatoes in a sun-splashed Italian street market, exploring the dark, mysterious souks in Marrakech, or whipping up a soufflé in a French farmhouse while Tim opened a bottle of crisp local white wine out on the terrace. It was like a dream in which we would recapture all the years we’d missed having together.

  By the time we reconvened over coffee the next morning, we were armed with a long yellow legal pad. The sober financial reality of this idea had settled in overnight. It’s tricky business balancing the rewarding life you have worked so hard to achieve with the harsh reality that you must conserve enough capital to live on as you get older. We aren’t wealthy, but we have a smart financial guy who shepherds the little nest egg we’ve accumulated and sends us a monthly allowance from his careful investment of it. That allowance, combined with our Social Security, is the basis for our monthly budget.

  ***

  Concerned we wouldn’t be able to make it stretch far enough, we made a list of every expense we could think of—and to our surprise discovered that our monthly nut was much larger than we thought. Then we compiled a detailed projection of what our overhead would be if we lived abroad in rented houses or apartments, including every conceivable expense. The numbers were exciting. They were very, very close. If we sold our house, we could live very comfortably in almost every country in the world.

  Although the notion thrilled us, we were still both anxious about whether we could actually take on such a challenge. What would it be like to have no home, no place to curl up in our own bed and put our things in our own closet after a long trip? How would it feel to live for several years in other people’s spaces? Where would our plan take us emotionally? Would the stress of moving every few months to a new country, starting over endlessly, strain our deeply contented marriage, a bond that so many of our friends envied? Would our four daughters, who already thought we were flighty for having moved around the country searching for the place we wanted to retire, ever speak to us again if we left the country for years? Were we ready to face an uncertain future, far away from our comfort zone and our family and friends? In the end, we reminded ourselves that we would never have a second chance to make this happen. It was now or never. We decided we were up to the challenge, to say “yes” to this groundbreaking idea.

  Then came a tidal wave of details: what to do with the dog, the furniture, the cars? What could we store and what could we dump? And would our families forgive us for wanting to roam far from them for long periods of time? The thought of telling our children, with whom we were both extremely close, about this idea was so daunting that we decided to put that far down on our “to do” list. Instead, we began to talk about where we would go, how we would meet new friends, what kinds of insurance we’d need, and all the details we would spend several months identifying and sorting out. Just when I thought our list of things to consider was complete, another question occurred to me. “Oh, God, what will we do about mail? We’ll have no address.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Tim, ever the cool-minded one, replied with a careless shrug. “We’ll be home free!”

  With those magical words, off we went on a breathtaking adventure that would carry us into a high-rise in Buenos Aires; a peaceful country hacienda in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico; a tiny apartment with a big view of the Blue Mosque and the Sea of Marmara in Istanbul; a darling flat with a great kitchen a few blocks from the Seine in Paris; a villa apartment overlooking Florence; a medieval three-story walk-up in La Charité-sur-Loire, France; a balconied one-bedroom by the River Thames near London, an apartment outside Dublin in a three-hundred-year-old Georgian mansion with views of the Irish Sea; two rooms in a colorfully tiled riad in Marrakech, Morocco; and a beach house near Lisbon, Portugal.

  Here’s the best part: we are in no hurry to see the sights. By living this way, we have the most precious commodity in the world: time. We aren’t tourists at all. We are temporary locals, wherever we choose to park our suitcases. And now that we are “home free,” home is wherever we are. How could we know the adventures that awaited us?

  Chapter 1

  Packing Up

  After our life-changing trip to San Miguel, we were primed to move forward with our exciting new plan when we returned to California. We just had a few decisions to make and we’d be on our way!

  But wait, not so fast. Tim and I both are Librans, October babies. In astrological circles, this means it’s impossibly hard for us to make decisions. And it certainly can be. Luckily though, we are both astrological anomalies, too, because big choices often are easy for us. We have bought cars in a matter of minutes and houses in an afternoon. (Is it any wonder our children would think we are flighty?) We decided to marry each anothe
r without a moment’s hesitation. Likewise, we instantaneously came up with this plan to sell our house so we could kick around the world for a few years. The house obliged us. It sold in one day—during a down market. With a sign like that, we weren’t about to let any astrological inclinations get in the way of our thrilling new life.

  So here is the story of how we went from there to here…and here…and here:

  We wanted to live in Paris, explore Ireland at our own pace, have an apartment in Florence, see what it would be like to live for a while in Portugal—in other words, be free! As I previously mentioned, we’d quickly realized that financially it would be difficult to just lock up our house and leave for months at a time. Maintenance problems would nag at us constantly, and a large house sitting empty is a target for all kinds of nefarious characters with bad intentions. Besides, the steep overhead would have severely limited our flexibility in where we could go and for how long. Converting the cash from the house into moneymaking investments was the sensible thing to do if we wanted to have the easiest lifestyle abroad.

  Our financial manager perceived the logic of pulling the cash from our house so it would work in our portfolio, instead of waiting for years for the post-2007 housing bubble market to recover. Theoretically, if we’d waited, we would find ourselves too old to enjoy life on the road.

  As I said, the house sold in one day. Now there was no turning back. The buyers also wanted a forty-five-day turnaround, which galvanized us into action.

  The day after the house sold, I found Tim in our cozy little office, hunched over his computer at 6:00 a.m. “Honey, what’s up? It’s not even light outside,” I croaked.

  Without looking up, he responded, “Did you know that a repositioning cruise from Miami to Rome costs $2,300 for both of us? That’s cheaper than airfare and we get two weeks’ room and board to boot! There’s one next year from Fort Lauderdale to Rome. Should we book it?”