So Much for That
"Why do you wonder that traveling does you no good, since you carry yourself around with you?"
— Seneca
This black dog seems to have decided on an extended stay. It's my nature to try to figure out a cause and address it, but maybe I just have to abide in this state and wait it out. Happy hour doesn't seem to fix anything on that front, despite the condition the name suggests.
The latest disappointment in an extremely disappointing time in life, given the national disaster, my own failing frame, etc., was this morning's realization that the fantasy of escaping the looming authoritarian disaster by moving to Uruguay will likely fail.
You see, the crypto tech bros have found the place, and have gone full John Gault trying to build a colony for their idiot tribe right there on the Rio de la Plata.
The whole point of the fantasy for us was that we could leave the dystopia created by the plutocrat class in the U.S. and reside among the laid back, famously kind Uruguayans. I wrote a while back about our process for crossing off other options as too close to wars or mass population movement, or too vulnerable to the effects of climate change. It turns out these folks ran the same checklist, and concluded that there was a sweet spot between Montevideo and Buenos Aires that fit the bill perfectly.
So much for that idea.
But really, what did we think would happen when we arrived there with a few weeks of Spanish and the hope of living on our savings and a Zoom legal practice? Did we think we'd suddenly become "happy", something I've never personally been particularly gifted at being?
The constant shifting between plans to relocate reflects unease or dissatisfaction more than the desire for some new adventure. Greece, Canada, Ireland, Massachusetts, Roanoke, Uruguay--and always a reason why one or the other won't work. And I'm beginning to find the exercise of endlessly scrolling between future retirement havens, while juggling five different current residences, some of which we rarely see anymore, simply exhausting.
Really, I just want to live with P in a place that's not too hot--as I've gotten older, I've lost my tolerance for smothering tropical heat, or even the desert's "dry" heat. I don't want a place where it's so expensive we have to work forever just to survive. I don't want ugly American sprawl, or a place run by Evangelicals.
I do want a decent arts scene. And public transportation. And the ability to walk places, even as my knee starts to show signs that a total replacement is coming sooner than I'd like. Having decent medical care nearby becomes more important every day. And (this is the trickiest of all) P and I are starting to feel like Southern sojourners who need to be around other Southerners, people who get our sense of humor and cooking and culture, such as it is.
Maybe I'll ask Google AI, or whatever they're calling it, if such a place exists.
But even if it does, as Seneca notes I'll be taking myself with me, so I need to start working on that part of the equation.
No time for that now, however. The work that had my mind racing at 4 a.m. is, as always, lined up out the door, with a new opportunity for a mistake or a conflict at each turn.
Comments