A Room of My Own

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By Pam Mandel

For many years, my husband and I lived apart. We were not separated in the legal sense. No, it was geography. I married a man from another country, and we simply could not agree upon where to live. We loved each other very much — we still do — but he hails from a tiny homogenous village in the Austrian Alps, and I am a city dweller set on multiculturalism and all that comes with it: ethnic diversity, great restaurants, and weirdos on the bus.

“When are you going to settle down?” they’d ask.

We compromised on this by spending part of our time in Austria, part of our time in the U.S., and part of our time apart. We did this for 10 years, three of which after we were married. While there were some difficulties, of course — the plane tickets, the phone bills, the instability — this arrangement had some very distinctive upsides, not the least of which was that I always had plenty of space. As a traveler, a writer, and an artist, space in which to do my own work is a critical component to my happiness.

Our living situation drove some of our friends and families slightly crazy. “When are you going to settle down?” they’d ask, unwilling to accept the fact that 10 years of living this way carries with it a degree of settled-ness that not all marriages have.

In a rare moment of restraint, I did not tell her that my relationship was, indeed, very real. Geography be damned.

Others resented the apparent success of our long distance solution, while they struggled to reconcile the idea in their own lives. I still remember the outrage, raw personal outrage, expressed by a friend who was involved with a man who did not live in close enough proximity.

“You can figure out how to make it work if you want to,” I said, trying to be encouraging.

“But it’s not a real relationship!” she replied, exasperated with her own situation while I seemed stubbornly unaware of her “problem.” In a rare moment of restraint, I did not tell her that my relationship was, indeed, very real. Geography be damned.

I could share my living space, no problem, but to work, I needed a room of my own.

When the husband and I finally decided that we should live in the same country for more than a three-to-five-month stint, we moved into my apartment. And we promptly hit an unexpected speed bump. I owned about 600 square feet of living space — the top floor of a subdivided early 19th century house. I worked at home. My mate also worked at home. Space constraints were such that my desk was tucked into a corner of the living room, while my husband sat on the couch to do his work. Under high pressure deadlines, I would crack.

“Don’t you have something to do somewhere?!” I would snap. There was a man on the couch, quietly minding his own business while I was trying to get things done. I could not be expected to work under these conditions!

We moved. Funnily enough, it was the work space that precipitated the move. Not the fact that when we had guests, they bunked on the foldout couch in the living room. Not the fact that we had no off-street parking or that the laundry room was down four flights of rickety, narrow stairs. It was not the ancient electrical wiring, the rattling windows, or the exorbitant heating bills in winter. I could share my living space, no problem, but to work, I needed a room of my own.

We moved. Funnily enough, it was the work space that precipitated the move.

We gained an obscene amount of living space with our move. We have an abundance of dry storage, a garage, and a room with a door that closes in which to sequester our never-ending stream of house guests. We have a garden where I grow peas, and sometimes, if the weather cooperates, tomatoes. There is a workshop for projects, a laundry room right inside the building, and a second bathroom — oh, the luxury. Most importantly, I have an office with a door that closes.

Our home is a mostly orderly place, but my office is a terrible mess. This drives my husband crazy. Sometimes when I’m working, from the corner of my eye, I see him standing in the door of my office eyeing the sprawl with Teutonic disapproval. I am okay with that. I will turn away from writing and smile at him. He knows, as do I, that even though we share the house — not just between the two of us, but between everyone who comes to visit — this room is my space.

About The Author

Pam is a freelance travel writer and photographer. In 2013, Pam was awarded a prestigious Solas Award, which honors writers whose work inspires others to explore. When she’s not traveling, she calls Seattle, Washington, her home. Keep up with her adventures on her Website www.nerdseyeview.com