>I am a very adaptable person. I love big, fabulous* cities with city excitement and city dining and city nightlife. And I love fast public transportation, especially if it goes underground. But I also really like the country and wildlife. And even though I’m not fond of suburbs conceptually, there are some that aren’t so bad — like the one I grew up in, for example, where you can still walk to the grocery store because my parents’ house happens to be very close to it, and where you can hop on a running/biking trail that runs parallel to a long creek through the area, and through some parks and golf courses, where you can see blue heron and deer and those sorts of critters. I don’t know that I’d like to be way, way, way out in the country, hours from the nearest city, though. One of my favorite spots in the world is my friend E’s mother’s house, on top of a ridge in Yorkshire, with fabulous views in every direction, and where’s there nothing else but her neighbor in their semi-detached, a farm, a set of row houses, and a pub, but it’s just about a mile up the road from the train into Leeds if you need to get out.
Anyway, the reason I bring all this up is to say that some of the nice things about living in these here parts are that a) the cost of living is low, and b) you don’t have to go far from the city to get country or from the country to get city. So the Boyfriend and I have been daydreaming about buying pretty, countryside, wooded land on which someday to build a weekend house, one that’s close enough to nearby Cool College Town for a good dinner out and access to the Whole Foods, should we want it, and also not so far from Rust Belt that we wouldn’t use it enough or friends wouldn’t want to come up.
Because we’ve been talking about this, on the last two weekends, when I’ve been on my way back from conferences and reading groups in said Cool College Town with my academically tonier friends at the R1 university, I’ve been driving around prospective areas. Along the way — and also with the advice of Smartass Poet (who, while having a penchant for teasing the department medievalist — and really, is there anyone who *doesn’t* tease the medievalist, dammit? — is actually a good guy) — I discovered an area called [Immigrant Ethnicity from a Green Country] Hills, full of rolling hills, woods, and lakes. It’s simply gorgeous. And with the help of the magic of the internets, I also found a realtor with a perfectly cheesy name based on a particularly evocative name of a town in said green country. The Boyfriend wondered if maybe we’d get a discount in such places, on account of my name very obviously belonging to said ethnicity. Sigh, if only.
My name did get me out of a moving violation ticket once, however, but that’s another story.
So anyway, some of you may find this surprising and amusing, but the other night at dinner with the Boyfriend, Smartass Poet and spouse, and Victoria and spouse, I actually found myself agreeing with Smartass Poet that raising goats sounded kind of fun. No, really! And when I went on the realtor’s site and found a 40 acre deer farm, I thought, “Oh, if only we could afford 40 acres! That would be so cool!”
That’s right, I’m having visions of my life story as “Dr. Virago, Farmer Woman.” Or how about “Professor by Day, Goat Herder by Night.” Or perhaps the Boyfriend and I would make a good remake of “Green Acres.” Omigod, if we *do* ever end up getting such a place, we *have* to call it Green Acres. (Hear that, honey?) [Update: Ha! Apparently the Boyfriend’s grandparents’ farm was once known as Green Acres. That does it. Whatever land we buy will definitely be called Green Acres now!]
OK, I’m getting silly now. There’s not going to be any real working farm involved, for pete’s sake. It’s way past my bedtime, though, and I get giddy when I get tired.
*Speaking of fabulous, and totally off-topic, can I just say how excited I am to be on Michael Bérubé‘s blogroll under “Fabulous Ones (Comrades and Unclassifiables).” That’s fabulous as in mythical, but then isn’t that what a virago is? But the question is, am I a comrade or unclassifiable? Well, I’ve only met him once and according to this, I must be the latter: And (this last question bedevils all of us literature professors) what was I to do with those damned medievalists? Especially the ones whose blogs are full of thorns? But being unclassifiable also suits this virago. Being bedeviling: priceless. (Hm, though to be properly medieval, I need to get thornier! At least there are a few in my blogroll.)