Times are hard
Here's your '08
Christmas card...
First, apologies for not sending a Christmas letter in 2006 and 2007. (I did actually write one last year, but never sent it. Trust me, that's a good thing.) Second, apologies for only sending an e-card this year, but postage from the UK to the US is outrageous!
2008 started on a sad note: Alex the iguana passed away in February. She was 17 years old, and she graced the cover of the Christmas cards from 1994 to 2005, most of which can still be seen here. (I have no idea why that site is still up; I closed that account years ago. I can't even update it.)
As you're probably aware, 2006 was a low point for me, and most of 2007 was spent recovering. If you're not aware: I spent my life's savings restoring an historic property that was in my wife's family, with the intent of moving there and opening a bed and breakfast. When it was finished, however, we got a divorce, instead, and I ended up with no money, no job, no car, and no home.
That's not entirely true: I still had a home because the house in LA had been on the market for over 6 months without a single offer. It was already mortgaged to the hilt so I couldn't afford to keep the house; I had to fix it up and sell it fast, or be forced into bankruptcy. So, for the next four months, I was living in my own house with no furnishings save for an inflatable bed, a battered old chair, two suitcases of clothes, a mini-fridge, and a 12” TV, plus my neighbor loaned me a frying pan, a knife, and a can opener. I had no car, the house was a construction zone, and my life was in limbo waiting for the house to sell. That was the worst part, not being able to move on, and even though I had to walk everywhere, I put on 35 pounds during the period.
It got even more bizarre: When the work was finished, I hired someone to “stage” the house, which meant she put in furniture, paintings, decorations, etc. Now I was living in my own house with somebody else's stuff and--contractually--I couldn't even sit on the sofa! (I did, anyway. I'm such a rebel.)
The house finally sold in February 2007 but, as I said, I had no equity left and I'd spent what little savings I had left fixing it up, so at the age of 37, I was flat broke and literally starting over from scratch. Now, I was born and raised in LA, all of my friends and business contacts were in LA, so naturally I decided to move to London. It was crazy, it was reckless, but if I had to start over anyway, I figured, why not do it different?
However, for the UK work permit, I needed proof of employment for the past 12 months, which I couldn't provide because of the bed and breakfast. So I took a job a friend offered me in LA, I rented a funky loft apartment downtown, I completely furnished it (although I still slept on the air bed for two months), and I decided not to get a car, but instead rely on public transportation. I went to shows, concerts, and museums; I ate the best food at the seediest little hole-in-the-wall restaurants; I went to the gym and started taking yoga classes; and I got to experience a whole different side of Los Angeles, which I actually loved. That didn't make me want to stay, but it did make me feel like I wasn't running away.
When I got my UK work permit in May 2008, I quit my job, sold all of the furniture I'd just bought, packed the remaining stuff back into two suitcases, reserved a hotel room in London for two weeks, and left. It was crazy, irresponsible, (kind of) impulsive, and scared the hell out of me—which is exactly why I did it. I told everyone I was leaving, of course, and people put me in touch with a couple of contacts, including some friends of friends, who had a daughter living in London.
I called Jessica and we spoke a few times before she agreed to meet me on Primrose Hill on a Sunday afternoon in June. I knew from our phone calls and emails that I was attracted to her, but I was completely unprepared for how gorgeous she was. I was so smitten, I wanted to be sure I didn't blow it by talking about my ex-wife, my lack of employment, or anything that had happened to me in the last two years. Naturally, she started the conversation with, “Are you married?” “Where do you work?” and “Why did you move to London?”
I was devastated, knowing she would never speak to me again—or at least not consider me dating potential—but, ironically, she appreciated my honesty, and agreed to a second date. I had butterflies all week, and felt like a teenager. Of course I was in love, but I didn't even recognize it until the end of the second date, when I kissed her, and suddenly it all became very clear.
Jessica is very warm and open, but she can also be shy and private, and she asked me not to take any pictures of her, which meant that for six months I was sending emails to friends and family saying, I've fallen in love with the most amazing woman, but I don't have any photos of her. Of course, they all thought I was lying, so in December I brought her back to California with me and, in eight days, she met most of my family and about 50 of my friends and co-workers.
So in the end, in spite of everything over the past three years, I know that it was all for the best, and I can honestly say I have no regrets. Even though the unemployment situation is stressing me out (and unemployment here is at a 20-year high), and I still don't have a permanent place to live (I'm subletting a furnished apartment until February), I absolutely love London, my relationship with Jessica just gets better every day, and I'm happier than I've ever been.
Happy holidays and best wishes for the new year!
P.S. Jessica agreed to let me share this photo, which my mom took in Los Angeles.
