I fell for a wanderer. A builder who looked at the crashing housing market and figured it meant the building market would be on the fritz, too. He sold most of his belongings and moved what he kept into a small storage shed in his backyard. His house, he rented out.
“Liquidation,” he called it, and hit the road.
And then, on one of his return trips to CB, he met me. I have always wanted to be a wanderer. I used to look around my Minneapolis bungalow, and even though I loved the way the light hit the wood floor or the abundant vegetable garden out back, I wondered how I could trade it in for wanderlust.
So when my wandering man suggested we live together, I didn’t think anything about it. Three month lease? Okay. Well, it only took four or five bouts with the same argument–where we should move next, how much money to spend, whether I should hit the road with him–to realize that my idea of wanderlust is a little different than his. I like to have a home that I can wander from… and then come back to.
I want to know where I am going to sit after I pour my morning cup of coffee (yes, I am back on that bandwagon, eagerly awaiting the arrival of a stove top espresso maker). I want to know what window I am going to stare out of while I write. I want a good view, and my own space, and I want to be able to ride my townie bike to work or the post office. I want to leave my car untouched until it’s time to head out of town, and while you’re at it, cheap rent and no long-term lease would be nice, too.
That’s right. I want it all. To travel and see new things, and to have the predictability and security of a home. P? His driving force is financial freedom, and travel.
In my most pessimistic moments, I decided we would never find the right place. The perfect compromise. Only now? It’s possible that we have.
Turns out it’s a place I never would have imagined finding or wanting. It’s a one room accessory dwelling with a sleeping loft. I am not exaggerating when I say that our living space, minus our sleeping quarters and the bathroom, is 11 feet x 14. There is no kitchen.
But there is a tiny deck out front and there are tibetan prayer flags hanging over the door. When it snows, I can sit on the couch and watch flakes fall into the yard. I can look out on trees and the neighbor’s dog trying to get Mica to play. P’s friends live in the main house, and have invited us to use their kitchen to bake. P will put in a kitchenette after he replaces the carpet with bamboo floors.
I know that I will have to carve out a space to write, and that I will knock on friends’ doors when I need more space. I know that it’s temporary (four months or so). But the rent is dirt cheap and there is no lease. P. can work off some of his rent by helping his friends out with projects, and on weekends we can take off to climb without always thinking about the price of gas.
It’s no magic answer, but it’s a start that I love. (Pictures soon)