International Living

For the longest time, the American Dream meant owning your own home, likely out in the suburbs. Your own little piece of American soil. Permanency. Dreams change. For an increasing number of Americans, the dream nowadays isn’t residential permanency but permanent RV living. It is, perhaps, a sign of post-millennial America

While attending International Living conferences over the years, it was always fun to sit in on Warren Hardy’s entertaining Spanish mini lessons. After moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, I was excited to be to be able to enroll in classes at the Warren Hardy Spanish school in person.

It was my first summer living in the South of France. My French was coming along, and, somewhere between bonjour and je ne sais quoi, I decided it was time to take the plunge. My husband, Nicolas, and I would attend our first summer festival.

It must be every adventurer’s dream. I sail into Guam on my sloop, The Way, finishing three years of island hopping and diving my way through the Pacific. I’m exhausted, unshaven, and reluctant but ready to find a job for a few months to refill my adventure purse.

Raised eyebrows…that’s what I got from people back when I said, “I live in Colón.” They weren’t exactly wrong to raise them. The province gets a bad rap because of its capital city, also named Colón. Steer clear.

The malecon was abuzz. Yachts, fishing boats, and catamarans traversed the Bay of Banderas. Along the seaside promenade, restaurants and bars set their tables right on the sand, unleashing an army of waiters to manage the flow of customers. The smell of international cuisine perfumed the air. There were bars and nightclubs you might see Read more...: A Rare Second Chance to Invest in a Classy Resort Town

A word of warning about traveling in Thailand: unless you are very lucky indeed, you will end up having to listen to someone telling you, at length, about how much nicer it was 10, 20, or even 30 years ago. Those stories should be taken with the proverbial grain of salt.

Five minutes after I had rented a little Kawasaki 175 enduro bike for about $20 per day, the police stopped me for cutting a yellow light a bit too closely for their liking. I thought the 200,000 Kip ($21) fine was a bit heavy for not actually violating any law, but the police in the Laotian capital of Vientiane weren’t giving me any breaks.

I’m rooting around in one of my cantinas looking for my harvest clothes. We have three of these rock-built rooms that were essentially wine cellars. One we still use for that purpose, a just-the-right-temperature space with brick ceilings and bottle racks to hold our vino. Another, below the terrace, is our woodshed.