I had a pretty serious girlfriend in New York. Her name was Jill. I was nuts about her.
Jill lived in NYC—she was an adjunct professor in the math department at NYU—but she was from Vancouver, British Columbia—the same city, coincidentally, where I was shooting my TV show. Jill had grown up in Vancouver in the 70’s and 80’s. She’d been a snowboarding prodigy as a teenager, which sounded terribly Canadian to me. She remembered her dad driving her down the icy mountain roads after snowboarding meets. Her father routinely bought her a tuna sub from Subway on the way home—this was their ritual. As he navigated the tricky curves of the mountain roads, guiding them both back to civilization, Jill sat in the passenger seat and ate the tuna sub.
Jill accompanied me on one of my work trips to Vancouver. We stayed in the spare room at her parents’ apartment. It was at some point on that trip—probably over dinner with Jill’s parents at an oyster place in Gastown—that we decided to move to Vancouver together.
The next day I phoned the producers of the Canadian TV show I worked on and asked if I could come work for them. They said yes. The wheels were in motion.
Jill and I returned to New York and began winding down our lives in NYC. We began scheduling goodbye dinners with friends. We fantasized about our new life together in Canada. The vulture of gloom? The one that routinely perched on my shoulders and made me flee subway stations in terror? The vulture’s days were numbered now.