53 Days in - My New Life

It would probably be best if I go back a couple of years and let you know that there was a proposal of marriage; then, following my acceptance, a proposal of moving, of living in a different country, of exploring the world and experiencing my husband’s heritage. What prospective bride could refuse?

So, a year later there was a wedding followed by a greedy four-month trip and a period of waiting, back in England, while the American Embassy decided that it was okay for me to live in the United States with my American-Born Husband.

And here we are, in The Land Of The Free: living with my husband’s parents and, amidst and global economic crisis, scrabbling to make our move a legitimate one. Only time will tell.

Tomorrow is Independence day: the inhabitants of the guard-gated community that Chris’ (the husband previously mentioned) parents live in (and therefore that we live in) are putting out flags, inviting friends round, and generally getting ready for a jolly good knees up come tomorrow morning at 8.45am.

This is the house that Chris grew up in. It is a house with no stairs (not to be mistaken with a bungalow!), with patios for sitting, a pool for cooling off and pretty flowers to tempt the hummingbirds. Outside of the confines of the house, within the confines of the gate, the streets are nearly silent, with only an occasional walker adding movement to a view of four-by-fours and grand entranceways. Our residence is small in comparison to those around, and has not been updated in the twenty years that the family spent in England - Chris’ Mom (please note spelling!) is keen to rectify this in order to keep up with the Jones’. We have not yet met the Jones’. But I hope to, tomorrow morning.

July the Fourth will kick off with a parade down to the community’s private beach, with refreshments served at the private beach club. After all the mayhem of trying getting settled in and make ourselves as independent as possible, Chris and I have only recently experienced the delight that is the private beach. Packed to the gills with towels and water and what-not, we trotted down the hill with the stories of little men in white caps bringing you a seat and umbrella. Indeed, there they were, willing to follow us to any portion of the sand that we wished for - and not only that, were provided with towels and water as well. I tried not to giggle with glee, Chris tried not to look too grateful, and we had a hasty, whispered conversation about tipping. On that particular day (almost two weeks ago now) we were rewarded for our troubles with a wonderful display of dolphins lazily gliding by a few metres out to sea.

So life isn’t all that bad, it would seem. But please bear in mind that we come home to the parents, and parents can have trouble remembering that their children have grown up. .