Reflections: Departure
When we got married, we vowed to keep life adventurous. We promised to continually push our boundaries of familiarity and comfort, to explore our curiosities, and to value making memories over purchasing things.
Just before our first wedding anniversary, we roadtripped up the entire west coast of the US and then across the country. For one month, every morning, we'd wake up and drive to wherever sounded interesting. Deserts, forests, volcanoes, beaches, and cities pulled us in every direction. We hiked and camped in nineteen national parks, visited more than a dozen friends, and explored cities we dream of one day calling home. We started our days making coffee in our little camping stove looking out over the Pacific ocean or deep in the Redwood forest, and fell asleep counting shooting stars under some of the biggest and clearest skies we've ever seen. Every day of that month on the road was filled with curiosity and excitement. What was supposed to be a 3,000 mile journey turned into 7,000, and we didn't want it to end. As our home on the east coast drew nearer, we wondered aloud: what if life could always be like this? The seed was planted.
We loved living in Providence, and we loved our work there. But we'd come to the hard realization that we were not meant to be in Rhode Island for the rest of our lives. Neither of us was born or raised there; we both really hate the cold; and over the years it felt like we weren't growing as much in our work. We wanted to live in a warmer place, and we craved new challenges. We could feel ourselves outgrowing the tiny state. We knew it was our time to bow out and make room for others. We also knew that once we planted new roots somewhere, we'd hopefully be there for many years. But we weren't ready to immediately set up a new life in a new city. We missed those unstructured days spent roaming freely. We missed navigating road maps and hiking trails with each other. Where would our next adventure take us? Latin America, and Mexico in particular, was calling us. That's when we began to take seriously the idea of embarking on an epic backpacking journey from Mexico City to Patagonia.
Around three years ago, we put together a savings plan. We set a goal that would pay off student loans and get us on the road. And while we saved, we dropped hints to our closest family and friends that we had plans up our sleeves to move out of Rhode Island. Most of them were supportive, but there was always a sense that they didn't think we'd seriously do it. How would we ever be able to save enough to do a trip like this with community organizer and part-time teaching salaries? Why don't you just settle down and give us grandkids? Why would you ever give up a job in these prime years of your life? Confused about our vision and worried about our sanity and safety, people had a lot of questions.
By the beginning of 2017, we had reached our savings goal, but serious doubts began creeping up. Were we being irresponsible? Is this really what we want to do? Are we ready to step out of our line of work for a while? What if the grass isn't greener on the other side? Can we really live without our cat while we're gone? After hearing about all the trouble he gets into, will Rebecca's mom even want to take care of our cat for us?
In March of 2017, an airfare alert popped into our email. Flights to Mexico City were incredibly affordable. We looked at each other as if we were about to jump out of a plane together and bought two one-way tickets. We frantically searched online for an apartment and found a super cute and eclectic room in the Escandón neighborhood near hip and trendy Condesa. We pulled the trigger, and in a matter of hours it was coming together. What had for years been a dream was becoming a commitment, and that night we knew there was no going back.
If a flight ticket and apartment in Mexico was like putting on a parachute, quitting our jobs was jumping out the plane. Nothing gave us the feeling that this is really happening more than notifying our nonprofit's board members and other employers about our move. The whole process of telling people we were leaving in a few months and saying goodbyes was more difficult than either of us anticipated. We have a running joke where we talk about places as if they're romantic partners, and leaving Rhode Island felt like a heart bruising break up after a serious relationship.
Transferring directorship of our nonprofit brought waves of nostalgia. Meticulously sorting everything we owned into storage and discard piles raked up memories of this place and the people who had come to be a sort of home to us. Providence was the city where we met and fell in love. It was the place we shared our first apartment together. It was the home we brought our cat into. It was work we believed in. We'd spent so many years dreaming and saving for this move, so many months planning this adventure, but in the final weeks before our departure we found ourselves more present than ever. We wanted to savor every minute with friends. We wanted to visit our favorite restaurants and parks and beaches for the last time. We wanted to make our final work days count even more.
When we got in the moving van with the few possessions we decided to keep, we held each other and cried. We didn't expect to have such a hard time saying goodbye. But we pulled out of the driveway. In a week we were supposed to be on a flight to Mexico City. A new adventure awaited us.