My dreams come true

Published September 2, 2009

Anyone who has known me for a while knows that I have a rich imagination (some would say alternate reality,) and that I live in a dreamland, in the future, in what ifs and somedays.

My all-time favorite fantasy, though, and the one which I really thought would come true, is this one: I marry a tall, dark, handsome man. He adores me and would do anything for me. One of the conditions of marriage, for in my fantasy I have many suitors, is that we live in Europe, at least for a little while.

I live in an ancient walled village, in a tiny apartment, or maybe a house. I have a little red-haired girl, and while my husband works, we explore Europe. 

We go to the farmer’s market, and make friends with the dogs and cats in the neighborhood. We know the butcher’s name, and the lady at the farmer’s market gives the little girl a strawberry or a piece of bread when she sees her. We have a lush garden, full of grapes and good things to eat, and we cook in our old house on an ancient stove.

On weekends, we go to Paris, or to Brussels, and explore.

My girl grows up learning two or maybe three languages, and then we come back to the states, which is about as far as the fantasy gets.

In reality, I got as far as the first sentence. 

I did marry a tall, dark, handsome man, and he said we’d try to live in Europe. We’ve been working on it for the twelve years we’ve been married. And it hasn’t happened, and now we’re settled in to Austin. With two boys, and not a hint of pink in sight.

I’m sort of resigned to this. My latest version of the fantasy is to figure out a way to get to Europe when they’re older -- I’m thinking if I just write a best-selling novel, when Sawyer’s 14 and Sander’s 10, in five years, we’ll live in Italy for a year. 

Sawyer would love Rome. And Paris. And the food! Sander would love the subways, and the bustle and life.

Mark wouldn’t do well there. He would try, but language is not his strong suit. He speaks one language well, and it’s engineering. 

English is a second language for him, and he struggles to convert the pictures in his head into English. 

Asking him to pick up Italian or French to go live in Europe is akin to asking me to go speak calculus so I can live in Cosin Land, where the Tangents and Square Roots live.

And so, I’m slowly learning to love Austin, and trying to adapt.

I adore Mark. I adore my boys. I’m trying to accept that this really is who I am. That Europe can wait.

And that I can learn to be happy here -- after all, I’m not in a freakin’ refugee camp, and it’s not like there aren’t people literally dying to get into the U.S!

And then...

For eighteen years, my best friend Christy and I have been over this fantasy so much it’s become our mantra. This is what we talk about -- how we love Target. How we love huge bookstores. How nice it is to go to Whole Foods.

And yet: We’d happily give it all up to have a farmer’s market in a town square in a walled village. Instantly. Goodbye, outlet malls. Hello, fishmonger.

No more freeways, or ice cubes, cold beer or baseball. 

Instead there are old gardens and ancient traditions and old ladies with babushkas and baskets of cabbage. Yes, there are discos and night life in Europe, but that’s not what Christy and I talk about. We talk about the slow pace, the wine with dinner, the good food, the lack of cars in tiny villages and the feel of community.

It might be all a fantasy, of course -- who knows if life would really be like that?

And two months ago, Christy moved to Germany. With her tall, dark, handsome husband, and her little red-headed girl.

To a tiny village, with no freeways or ice cubes.

There’s a grinding wheel in the courtyard of her house. And an ancient pressure cooker down in the scary basement, next to the chimney that you use to smoke meats.

Of course there’s a lush garden, where the red-haired girl picks grapes, and apples, and cucumbers and blackberries, so far. It’s only been eight weeks -- I’m sure there’s more to come.

They visit the old lady across the street, who wears a babushka, on their way to the bakery two doors down. The old lady, it turns out, has hay in her basket, not cabbages. Who knew?

They go through the dark forest behind their house down a path and into the walled village a half-mile away for the festivals that happen so often this time of year.

There’s wine with dinner, and good food, and everyone knows them and says hello.

And I’m not there.

I’m here, thousands of miles away, with a shriveled up, miserable pile of dirt that should have been a garden, with two amazing boys who are not red-headed, and not a grinding wheel or a walled village in sight.

And I miss her every day, and wish I could be a part of it.

After all, if someone’s living my fantasy, it would only be fair if I at least get to visit.

Damn.

What’s the old advice about learning to appreciate what you have?

Oh, but I do. I know I how lucky I am. I am truly thankful every day for the incredible places I’ve been and where I am right now.

But for someone who lives in the land of what if and someday, it’s hard to keep your mind in Austin when your dream’s in a tiny walled village half a world away.