Travelling As A Single Middle-Aged Woman, Part 1: How I Got Here
By the time most of us reach the age of forty-eight, we are relatively well-established; living in our own homes, whether owned or rented, have a little (or large) nest egg that we are growing as we barrel towards retirement, sometimes we share all of this with a partner or kids, possibly live close to family, and have carved out a stable little existence for ourselves — I, however, have none of these things.
In late 2017, I left my rented three-bedroom house in the northern suburbs of Perth, Western Australia with my sixteen-year-old travelling companion: a black and white medium hair kitty called Jaime. I sold half of my belongings, put the other half into storage, and attempted to move to the good old US of A.
Eighteen months and one relationship later, I was flat broke, had sold my remaining furniture that was still sitting in Australia, and had my marching orders from the US government.
I had chosen the absolute worst time to be an immigrant, and after a brief stint of studying to buy myself more time, I was out of options. Broken, financially and emotionally, I headed to Costa Rica to teach English. To make matters worse, I had to leave Jaime with my ex which was excruciating, but I knew that it was only a matter of time until we were reunited. I needed to get my shit together and he needed a stable place to stay. At almost eighteen and riddled with arthritis, he had chronic kidney disease and a hyperthyroid issue, so hauling him down to Central America was not in his best interests.
I lived in Costa Rica for seven months and spent most of that time pining for the home I had built in Texas. I fell into a depression and when I wasn’t teaching, I could be found lying on my bed in my rented room, playing a time -and mind- wasting game on my cellphone whilst watching shows on my laptop.
Something needed to change!
Against my better judgement, I allowed my ex back into my life and we made plans for me to fly to Canada where I would wait for my permanent visa to return to our home in the US. In September 2019 I hopped on a plane and touched down in Toronto to be reunited with my partner and my beloved Jaime, who I had missed terribly during those long, lonely months in San José.
Jaime and I settled into a basement apartment in London, Ontario, and my partner returned to Texas with plans to come up again at Christmas. I started teaching English as a Second Language (ESL) full-time online as I searched for jobs in Canada. Unfortunately, the relationship didn’t last as, what breaks once, is destined to break again and again. Jaime and I were on our own as I hustled to make rent on a severely deficient wage.
The new year arrived with a whimper, although none of us could have foretold the bang that was to come! When I wasn’t teaching, I worked feverishly on my first book and tended to my shrinking kitty whose little life was ebbing away. Not knowing what else to do or where to go, I applied to extend my visitor’s visa in Canada until the end of the year to stay put until I had a more concrete plan.
I lost Jaime in February 2020 and it broke me in two, creating a void in me that left me feeling adrift in a storm of the unknown. I had spent nineteen years making him my primary responsibility and in turn, he had anchored me to a purpose. No matter what we went through, we had had each other, and pulling his sweet little body into mine always made me feel that we could ride out any storm together.
Now he was gone.
To make matters worse, I was without a car in a city where one was needed and I found it extremely difficult to make friends. A week before the world shut down due to the novel Coronavirus, I finally managed to make two friends… damn! I had been isolated for six months and it looked like I was to be isolated again.
Those two friendships, however, had other ideas and helped to make 2020 one of the happiest years of my life. We gathered together around the firepit in my backyard every few weeks and chatted away merrily for hours, all three of us six feet apart. We kept each other feeling connected during the months of isolation where fear reigned supreme and no-one knew what the hell to do.
By my birthday in July, Canada was doing well and began opening up some outdoor and then indoor dining options. I greeted forty-seven with a horseback ride through the Ontario countryside in the morning and a dinner at my favourite restaurant in the evening.
I was happy, but the date of when I would have to leave the Great White North was looming. History was repeating itself. As the cases were still fairly low in Ontario, I took some much needed time off from my demanding teaching schedule to spend a few days away with friends.
And then, as quick as a thief in the night, there it was… December 2020. Time to leave.
Rather than extending my visa again, I took the opportunity to return to South Africa to see my parents who I hadn’t seen in four years. With my beloved Jaime gone, no home to call my own, and everything I owned able to be stored, I was truly free for the first time in over two decades.
What was meant to be a three-month trip to the Southern Cape turned into seven as Canada’s borders remained firmly closed. Vaccines were being rolled out but the South African government was moving slowly as it is wont to do, and I was desperate to get vaccinated and return to my little basement apartment.
Living with one’s parents at almost fifty is challenging, and after seven months, I was done.
I booked a one-way flight to Cancún, Mexico, whose borders had never closed, and figured I could get vaccinated there whilst I waited for Canada to re-open their borders. What I was going to do with only a six-month visa once I arrived, I did not know, but I was becoming adept at rolling with life’s challenges.
All I knew was that I needed to get back to the place where I felt I belonged, the place that felt like home.
I had managed to save some money living rent-free with my parents, which I was incredibly thankful for. Making rent in Canada, as well as buying food, had been extremely challenging on my meagre income. Whilst the low teaching rate kept me going and enabled me to remain employed through the pandemic, it did not allow for anything other than the necessities of food and shelter, with an occasional treat.
Most online ESL sites don’t pay for the time you make yourself available, money can only be earned for ‘talk time’, and so if you’re not plugged in and talking to a student, you’re not getting paid. On an eight-hour shift, I might only speak with students for four or five of those hours, and spending a day at work and getting paid for half of it is a frustrating way to make money.
There were times in Canada that I was extremely concerned about being able to make rent, but thank the Lord, I managed to pull the hours I required every month to keep a roof over my head. Between teaching on two platforms, three private students, and 45 -52 hour weeks, I did what I needed to do.
At one point in 2020 I worked for thirty-one days straight, not something I would like to repeat anytime soon, but I’m proud of my will to survive.
Since leaving Australia, I had spent eighteen months in the US, seven months in Costa Rica, fifteen months in Canada, and seven months in South Africa. Whilst I was tired of moving, the time spent in each place had allowed me some breathing room and a smidgeon of stability.
This, however, was all about to change!
Click here to read the second part of this riveting story of a middle-aged woman gone mad!
