There is a fear in the pit of my stomach. One I am ashamed to admit. I’m beginning a journey around the world, interviewing couples happily married for twenty-five-plus years, and still can’t completely shake it.
I’ve spoken with thousands of happy wives through the club and yet can’t seem to come to a complete resolve about one challenge.
I look into the eyes of my husband, a man whose nature is so much better than mine, and feel as though I will never compare. I’ve always known this. What I work so hard to accomplish in my personal life comes with great ease in his.
He loves me far more than I have earned. He believes in my ability to reach the highest mountain without ever questioning how I’ll get there.
One of his colleagues recently questioned the wisdom of shifting my attention away from the career I’d spent almost two decades building to pursue my passion for writing. (I was standing right there, by the way.) In response, Keith simply smiled.
When the colleague asked Keith what the plan was, Keith looked him square in the eyes and said with complete confidence, “Top of the New York Times Best Seller list. That’s it. That’s the only plan.”
Befuddled, the man’s look questioned Keith’s lack of realism. But Keith couldn’t care less. Instead he grabbed my hand and smiled. “Straight to the top.” In Keith’s mind, no one is going to assail his wife’s ability to succeed in anything she sets out to do. Everything I touch, he’s convinced, has the ability to turn to gold.
He believes too much in me. In his eyes, I’ve never failed. The second company I owned at the age of twenty flopped with such a loud thud I can still hear it reverberating. Keith still has mementos from that business venture. They sit atop a shelf in our garage, and although they are covered with dust, he can’t quite bring himself to part with them. They represent a lesson learned and instructions for my career that would follow.
When Keith looks at me, he sees a woman who is still growing. A person who will one day become the woman she most longs to be. One God will look down upon and say, “My daughter, I am so proud of you.”
Of course I’m not there yet. But in Keith’s eyes, I’m oh-so-very-close. Does his unending love for me blind him from my many faults? Has he consciously chosen to turn a blind eye when my attempts fall short whether in business, in life, or in marriage?
I’m just Fawn. Otherwise defined as flawed, imperfect, independent to a fault. Quick to say when others are wrong, slow to say when I am not right.
The fear camping down in the pit of my stomach is that one day he’ll realize it. He’ll find me out.
Canada-bound, nearly thirty-six thousand feet above the ground, with nothing but clouds outside my window, I watched the apex of a small rainbow peek through the clouds momentarily. For a split second I could see the ground far beneath me and wondered if those below were getting a light sprinkling or a torrential shower. But the rainbow was unmistakable, so unexpected.
I was taken by this eclipse of melancholy, knowing excitement for this journey would come again soon. Still, I knew I would be on the lookout for women who could say, “I didn’t deserve his love, but he gave it anyway.” I wanted to know I wasn’t alone, crazy, or overly dramatic feeling the way I felt.
I needed to be reassured that it’s silly to think my marriage would plummet into the statistical abyss just because I had some room to grow. I at least knew I hadn’t stopped believing in the power of love or the beautiful mystery of a lifelong marriage.
I imagined myself at the end of this journey, returning to my home soil, full of tears. Not tears of sadness, fear, or worry that I should be stripped of this thing I don’t deserve from a man who, without strings attached, has freely given his heart to me. No, I imagined streams of joy and happiness that the heart he placed in my hands, to have and to hold, has been well kept.
When we are dancing cheek to cheek at the reception of our fiftieth anniversary, I will sigh a breath of relief. We made it through this cynical and cold world together. And as he twirls me around on the dance floor, I will give the appearance that I never for a single moment doubted our love’s life.
I admit to myself that until then I need the wisdom of other women who have already danced that dance and proven true love may only come once in a lifetime. But it can come once, and once is more than enough.
The pilot announced over the loudspeaker, “We’re now going to begin our descent into the Winnipeg, Manitoba area.” I looked out the window at farmlands neatly arranged against the horizon like large puzzle pieces of earth and grass.
My first stop off the plane, a little postflight routine for me, was getting a bottle of water. I pulled out a few dollars. “Sorry. We don’t accept American cash here,” the young lady advised. Oh yes, I’m no longer in the US. I gave her my American Express, collected my water, and proceeded to baggage claim. The hotel where I was staying was the closest one to the airport, so I called and asked for the shuttle to pick me up. Within a couple curious minutes, the shuttle arrived. The driver took my bags and lifted both of them into the shuttle. He jumped in the driver’s seat and proceeded to drive for thirty seconds.
Greeted by a friendly front desk agent and her manager, I gave my passport and credit card and got the keys to my room. It was pleasantly quiet, overlooking the runways but well insulated from the noise. I couldn’t hear the airport traffic at all.
After a long day of flying and airports, I wanted nothing more than to eat and then go to sleep. I decided to take a gamble and order from the hotel restaurant. Hotel food can be hit-or-miss, so I try to avoid it as much as possible, but this time I ordered a Reuben sandwich and sweet potato fries.
“Are you watching your weight, or can I bring you a side of mayonnaise?” the server asked.
“A side of mayonnaise? For what?”
“We dip our sweet potato fries in mayonnaise here,” he told me.
In the US, we eat fries with ketchup, and I’m feeling quite American right now. And we do not ask women if they’re trying to lose weight, I thought to myself. I’d need to work my way up to mayonnaise as a dipping sauce and ignore the unavoidable response that maybe I need to shed a few pounds. I soon learned Canada is known for a french fry dish they make that’s similar to our chili cheese fries. Only in the Canadian version, called poutine, their fries are covered in gravy and topped with cheese curds. At one point, I’m told, the country wanted to make it their national food.
In the morning, feeling fully rested and ready to get my worldwide search underway, I went to the front desk to get directions to the city’s most popular sights.
“Good morning. How can I help you?” came the standard-issue greeting from an overly chipper hotel attendant named Ron.
“I’d like to see some sights in the city. What should I do?” Granted, I could have easily looked this up on the Internet. But I prefer to engage with locals—what they say about their hometown can give you a better sense of what natives do, not just what some out-of-towner thought was fun. I like having that insider perspective, and know I’ll need it as I travel the world.
“The Forks. You should go to the Forks,” Ron said.
“Great!” I said enthusiastically, without asking for anything else. “Can you give me the walking directions?”
Ron’s bright face clouded over somewhat.
“The Forks is at the river, and that’s more than ten kilometers away,” he said. For those of us not on the metric system, that’s a wee bit over six miles. Ron’s tone had that sound of Oh, you really shouldn’t do that.
While I appreciated his gentle, implied warning, I also love walking, especially when traveling.
“No, it’s all right,” I insisted. “I love to walk. I’ll be there in no time. Could you just point me in the right direction?” Ron did more than just point. He whipped out a map of the area and carefully explained every turn and step I would take. “It’s not the fastest route,” he said as he traced my route with a pen on the city grid. “But it avoids some of the seedier places. You definitely don’t want to walk here.” He was drawing an imaginary circle with his finger around an area that covered the most direct route to the Forks. I love good customer service, and I could tell Ron had a heart to truly serve. I appreciated his local expertise.
I thanked Ron for his help and marched outside the front entrance.
The way to the Forks started along the road leading away from the airport and then merged onto the highway. There was a small path on the right of the road, more of a shoulder for stalled vehicles, really. I could see why Ron wanted to dissuade me from walking because within a few minutes of leaving the hotel, I was basically a cheery hitchhiker.
I chose to believe I would be covered by angels and kept walking. I walked and walked and walked. Straight down Wellington Avenue to King Edward Street to Route 90 South and a left on Portage heading east.
I kept my eyes on the road and remained alert at all times. I didn’t want to look like a tourist, so I walked with purpose and never slowed down. I walked for a little more than two hours (only one missed turn and a slight detour) and then arrived at the Forks, a popular historic site downtown at the confluence of the Assiniboine and Red rivers.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always had a bit of wanderlust. Wanting to see new things and new people is just a part of who I am. But like most people, I fall prey to the temptation of days full of routines and normalcy. We need that, I guess, because you can’t live each day at full throttle, reinventing everything. Being in a new place helps break the stiffness of the daily grind. What was mundane becomes wonderfully magical—local currencies have unfamiliar faces, cars and street names are slightly different, food comes with mayonnaise, and you have to mentally convert kilometers into miles. For me, the combined effect is life-giving, a reminder that we can choose to see life as something new regardless.
By the time I arrived at the Forks, I was famished and needed to eat something, anything. After a quick, casual meal of beef bourguignon, I walked a couple of blocks and found a store with bottled water. With water in one hand and my camera in the other, I crossed the bridge and paused to take it all in. I was in awe of the beautifully architected Esplanade Riel, a bridge with large strands of thick steel cords pulled together in a cone shape twisted at the top.
On either side of the Esplanade Riel, one can easily see the river that runs beneath. To the southwest corner of the bridge is an expanse of manicured grass, trees, and flowers with pathways trafficked by bikers and pedestrians. Directly ahead by two hundred feet (sixty-one meters) and across from the backside of Union Station is a skate and bike park. Local teenagers hung out and practiced stunts on their skateboards and bikes.
I was watching kids in hoodies and baggy jeans wipe out as I walked toward Union Station and then to a historic hotel, Fort Garry. This hotel was a stunning display of how the wealthy must have lived one hundred years ago. Built by the Canadian railroad companies in 1913, this elegant chateau stands alone in the middle of the city. Only one well-groomed doorman stood between me and the hotel’s elegant lobby. I assumed my best “I belong here” look and breezed through the doors unaccosted.
I spun a quick twirl around and found one lone couch sitting in an open space near a large window. I’m not sure what this area was supposed to be, but since there was no other piece of furniture in sight, it was the one place to sit and collect my thoughts. I’d been carrying my laptop in a backpack all day, so I was happy to pull it out and begin writing. It was a perfectly quiet location with no one around, and served as a great muse for allowing thoughts to flow freely.
After staying a short while and recharging with a sandwich and bottle of water, I continued the walk back to my hotel. Along Broadway, the traffic was not too dissimilar from the driving experience one might have in Los Angeles: bumper-to-bumper, with a bunch of drivers honking and in a rush to get nowhere.
Throughout my walk, I couldn’t help but notice all the desolate buildings in the city. The countless number of doors boarded up and windows covered with newspaper would seem to indicate the country was hit as hard as the United States by the Great Recession. But I’m told by locals that the downturn of the US economy didn’t impact Canada much. I just happened to be walking through one of the worst parts of town.
Still, I was keenly aware of the beauty interspersed with unsightliness. Art next to graffiti. Stunning parks next to abandoned buildings boarded up long ago. These Canadians, it seemed to me, had a heightened fascination with memorializing the dead. Large memorials were scattered throughout the city and the most beautiful parks had monuments as their centerpieces.
The dead next to the living. Beauty surrounded by ashes. Yet, somehow it all went together and felt as though it belonged. It gave a raw and authentic feeling, as if no matter how broken you were, you could be a natural and needed part of the city. Shades of gray lining the concrete streets were banked by breathtaking parks and gardens, colorful flowers, and bountiful trees.
It reminded me of my gray thoughts on the flight in. Like anyone, when I’m honest, I admit I’m full of beauty and ashes too—as was Faye, my first international interview on this journey.