Larry Prosor, age 54: Let’s start at the end of our story. It’s the best part. It’s now. As I write this, I’m looking out a window at our beach, a few miles up the coast from the town of Gisborne. I see our pond, green hills, enticing surf. It’s been almost eight years since Cindy and I sold our stuff, including a nice home near Lake Tahoe, California, and moved. At this moment I still feel like a 19-year-old kid who’s left home for the first time. Time has slowed down. I’m exploring new land. Meeting new friends.
But then there’s the beginning of our story. The “starting over” part. It was wobbly and awkward. And it took a few expat friends to get us where we are now.
Cindy Prosor, age 56: We boarded a plane bound for the bottom edge of the planet the day after my 50th birthday. New Zealand’s beauty had mesmerized me on previous trips, but this time I felt like I’d jumped off a cliff. When we landed, I already missed our well-worn home. Our daughter was a million miles away. The phone didn’t ring for days. The calendar was empty, and so was the mailbox. Riding bikes to the beach, morning tea in hand, was idyllic. But I had nothing to distract me from me.
And then we started meeting people who’d made the same leap. People who needed connections, not total isolation, to make this island come alive. To make it home.