Full Circle: Coming Home

In the spring of 1992, I did what a lot of young men do when the ground under their feet starts to shake. I sold most of what I owned, stuffed the rest into a Honda Civic that sat so low it practically kissed the pavement, and drove west from Sherbrooke, Quebec to British Columbia.

Officially, I was going to visit my mother and sister in Penticton. I had not seen them in two years. Unofficially, I was outrunning a recession that was chewing up Quebec and spitting out young insurance brokers like yesterday’s chewing gum. Try selling policies and investments to people who just lost their jobs. Try convincing folks with money that a young man with more ambition than grey hair should be trusted with their investments.

The plan was simple. Stay a year. Improve my English. Go back home. Life heard my plan and laughed.

I met a woman, I got married, I bought a house and I raised a family. I took advantage of British Columbia’s vast crown land for hunting, fishing and other outdoor activities. BC stopped being a visit and became my life. I coached, cheered in cold arenas, took full advantage of the Okanagan’s sunshine and the Kootenay’s beauty. I built a circle, built memories. I built a version of myself that would not have existed had I stayed put.

Years later, after a divorce and eventually a new relationship, we made another bold move. This time south, to Costa Rica. Pura Vida! Sun on your face, slower mornings, less noise. On paper it looked like freedom with palm trees. And in many ways, it was. But paper and reality do not always share the same ink.

As Canadians living abroad, we learned that our government takes a 25 percent bite out of pensions when you are deemed a non resident. More than when we actually lived there and used the roads, hospitals and everything else our taxes supported. That alone felt like paying cover charge to a party you already left… every single month.

Then there is the quiet dominance of the U.S. dollar. Costa Rica has its own currency, the colón, yet rent is quoted in USD. Real estate in USD. Vehicles in USD. Even local services often preferred USD. When you are losing over 30 cents on every dollar exchange, your pension starts to feel like a melting ice cube in the tropical heat, with no reprieve during winter months.

The final lesson came courtesy of the banks. My pension would land in Costa Rica and instead of a straight conversion from Canadian dollars to colones, it took a scenic route. Canadian to U.S. dollars. Then U.S. dollars to colones. Two exchanges, two margins, both in the bank’s favour, of course. By the time it reached us, our buying power had been politely trimmed like a bad haircut.

So the dream of living cheaper turned into a financial ocean freight ship caught in bad weather. You are moving ahead, yes, but nowhere close to where you want to be.

We do not regret going. Costa Rica gave us beauty, friendships, lessons and a deeper understanding of what Pura Vida really means. It is not just a slogan on a T shirt. It is a mindset. A daily choice to see the good, even when the numbers on the spreadsheet try to argue otherwise. We will go back to visit. Some places stay in your heart even if you cannot afford to stay in them.

Coming back to Canada meant choosing between British Columbia and Quebec. British Columbia is still stunning. It is also stunningly expensive. Housing prices helped make the decision for us. Quebec is where my roots began. It is where my father and my sister are, where my extended family resides.

After almost thirty five years away, I am heading home as I begin my sixth decade on this earth. There is something poetic about that. A circle closing. Not because I failed anywhere else. Not because I regret the journey. Quite the opposite.

I have lived. I have loved. And yes, I have laughed. I have helped raise two beautiful children who are now adults. I have left footprints in places that once felt foreign. I have stepped out of my comfort zone in several occasions.

If there is any sorrow, it is the time not spent closer to my father all those years. That is time you do not get back. So now I intend to make up for what I can. Walks. Conversations. Quiet afternoons that will one day mean more than any tropical sunset.

Every place I have lived has written its own chapter in my story. Not one of them was wasted. Even the difficult pages, the ones I would not necessarily choose to relive, carried lessons I could not have learned any other way.

Now, with a little less hair, a few more lines on my face, and yes, a couple of stubborn pounds that seem quite comfortable where they are, I am coming home. I am fortunate and grateful to be doing it with my best friend, my lover, my wife by my side. We are heading back to where a dollar earned is actually a dollar spent. There is something honest about that. Clean. Simple.

We cannot tear out the earlier chapters. They are part of the plot whether we like it or not. But as long as God grants me time on this planet, the story is still unfolding. The pen is still in my hand. And I am not done writing yet.