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My retirement plan

I’ve been back from Europe for two weeks and slowly getting into the rut of things again. My summer of unemployment is moving along smoothly and my weeks blur into my weekends; neither are so very different. I wake up, roll over to the living room and continue my foray into self-employment. I’ve recruited a friend to join me in my quest for emancipation. He’ll likely help out with business development.

We often have video conferences using Skype, sometimes daily. Its encouraging to talk to people when you’re self-employed and work from home, seeing as the most conversation I have is with my tequila bottle. I like to reach out to those who are in the same situation as me, and we form an ad hoc league of self-employed deadbeats.

He commented once, when we were Skyping, that the scenary never changes in the webcam. Sometimes I am topless, but the background is generally a scattering of papers, dying plants and biodegradable coffee cups. Perhaps I might surprise him one day and answer the video chat from my bathtub.

You might think of me as a Man of Leisure, but that is the whole point to being your own boss. You work at your own pace. I work during the mornings the best and rest during the afternoon, reading books on related materials. Sometimes I work late into the night, other times I work Sundays skipping meals. That is all part of the new world order for me.

I think back to my vacation in Europe, and when people ask me about it, I catch myself sounding like a tired old cliché. Is Europe a cliché? I have always thought so, doing my best to avoid Western Europe mostly, but wondering why do people have the same general experiences when going to Europe? “A revelatory experience!” or “I’m a changed man!” are the catch-phrases of European dilettantes upon their return. Though I cannot articulate why, I feel remorseful for feeling the same way.

I came home to an apartment strewn with cobwebs, a few knocked over potted plants and dishes I somehow missed cleaning before I left. The spiders did not miss me at all and I had to throw out a cup that became home to a colony of pathogens, nestled in a puff of orange, furry moss. And somehow, there are ants roaming freely in my apartment. At least, rent-freely.

Only two weeks ago, I was sharing a park bench with a bearded homeless man* as we silently watched the scene that revealed itself before us: the sun going down over Lake Zürich, young Italian travelers laughing by the port, a Swiss couple hand-in-hand walking along the dock and scooters zipping and buzzing by behind us. I had a small tupperware of mini-pepperettes which I would quietly pass over to him and we ate without saying a word. If that’s not romance, I wouldn’t know what is.

It’s scenes like those that I remember about my trip. That, or sitting in a big park in the middle of Stockholm with Liam, eating a torn off leg of a Tandoori chicken in one hand, and gripping the neck of a bottle of red wine with the other. Or jumping on a train to Vienna instead of a plane back home, looking to spend one more week, maybe seeing something I wasn’t expecting. Searching for moments, taking chances and never looking back.

I’ve been looking to gain clarity and see through the fog without the necessity of infrared glasses (although that might be pretty cool). The future remains uncertain, with only a shell of a plan for myself, so any guidance I can ascertain from reading these books will hopefully make me more sure-footed if not somewhat emboldened.

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*I met another homeless man at the train station (Zürich HB) later on that evening. I sat in the SBB lounge waiting for my train while he sat beside me. I offered him some of my aforementioned pepperettes. He began to speak to me about Che Guevara in German. None of which I understood. He was a large man, of about 50. Stood 6 feet tall, perhaps taller. He proceeded to pull up his pants (while explaining to me in German) and showed me his swollen ankles. Due to malnutrition I suppose, or possible walking a lot. He refused my pepperettes and walked away, but not before shaking my hand in gratitude.

Mesmerized by the ugliest monument ever

It’s been a week since I’ve arrived in Stockholm. I’ve mostly walked and taken the local transit around town to see the city. The city is surprisingly smaller than I thought it would be. Mostly centered around the royal palace and shopping districts.

The people here are as rumours foretold: glamourous, stylish and beautiful. A few centuries of war, famine and disease have done well to clean out the gene pool. Most days, I meet Liam for lunch. We typically grab some take-out and sit in the park with his co-workers. The park is always full of people and there’s even a bar in one of the parks near Stureplan. I spent one lazy afternoon sitting at a floating bar by the water and even took a nap on the bench.

I spent yesterday afternoon wandering around Södermalms, one of the islands in Stockholm. There are so many islands in this archipelago I can imagine spending a few weeks just sailing around them all. I walked up and down the cobblestoned streets, for a few hours until resting at a small Indian food restaurant and sat outside for a mid-afternoon snack. Feeling my way around, I continued through the backstreets and wound up in a small city park that had a large fountain. The fountain had a sculpture of a viking beating down a dragon that spewed out water.

One of the great things about Sweden is all the public people spaces they have. Large squares, fountains, sculptures and various other centerpieces. In the round-about near the center of it all, there is a large (very ugly) monument in a fountain. Then there are benches lined up on the sidewalk for people to just sit and watch the fountain. It’s great for people watching too.

Today, I’m heading over to Djurgården island and maybe try to take in a couple museums or castles. Most of Europe can be described by a continent of museums and architecture. I’ve decided to extend my trip by a week to visit Vienna and Prague. I’ll be leaving for Zurich on Friday morning.

I spent the better part of February traveling. Starting off in London, I attempted to find Hogwarts, but unfortunately the Victoria line was 1) out of my way and 2) under construction. I spent the majority of my time there commuting to and from two offices at opposite ends of the city. So if you were to ask me, Have you been to London? I can confidently say, I’ve been under London.

The accent was difficult to understand at times, but I found my generic response of saying Harry Potter! in a high-pitched voice and lilting accent, worked out quite well. I ended up spending my birthday on the plane while I returned home. Nothing like a catered meal by Cara; some beef stew TV dinner and a glass of soda (not a full can, mind you) to ring in the 29th year of your existence. Luckily, it happened twice thanks to the time zone difference. Once in London, and then again when I was somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean.

Right away, I flew out to Vancouver for a week of work, and then a few days of vacation. The vacation involved a three day stay up at Whistler, where we snowboarded and snowmobiled up and down Blackcombe and Whistler mountains. The vacation time, though short, afforded me some space and time to evaluate where I am and where I’m going.

For certain, I will be looking more aggressively for my own place in Toronto; I won’t be moving back to Vancouver yet. I briefly flirted with the idea of living in a loft, but then realizing how completely unaffordable they are for me. I’ve taken a more realistic look at what I can afford and where. If only I had a spouse to share the burden of the mortgage.