By Maryanna Gabriel
I admit it. I am a real estate refugee.
A bear has punctured holes in the garbage can lid since I arrived. This is just outside my bedroom window. Today the temperatures in the mountains are minus twenty and plummeting - all very Swiss Alps. I stare out my window, a little wild-eyed, and retrace my steps as to how I got here.
From the thought "I want to sell my house", and actually making this happen, there has been a glacially slow interlude, wrought with change. The change I am referring to is the volatile Canadian economy and unknowingly being caught in a housing market u-turn.
Be smart, Maryanna, I told myself, wait for a house. Wait for it. It seemed prudent to rent.
I began innocently enough by answering an ad. A woman on a small island in Sidney Harbour had a waterfront home with a furnished suite and was looking for a tenant. The ad stated there was no ferry but there was a water taxi. Being a writer, a small island sounded ideal. Most of my belongings were in storage, I could handle the taxi. Besides, not only was the apartment affordable, the photos consisted of stunning scenes of sunlit rooms with sparkling ocean waters alive with the movement of ships and sea life. Perfect. Maybe I would write a few novels - move over Margaret Atwood. Hah.
She replied enthusiastically and would pick me up at the dock. I felt terribly adventurous as warning blasts sounded and ships maneuvered. In her little boat, we dodged marine traffic as wind whipped my hair. What a terribly exciting person I was, how fabulous a day, and how glorious to be alive.
