A Not-So-Typical Christmas Letter

 Suntans, Sold Signs, and the Great Bagel Escape

Dear Friends and Family,

Merry Christmas, Eh! As the snow falls gently (or, let’s be honest, blizzards sideways) back home, we thought we’d send you warm wishes from somewhere considerably less… fluffy.

This time last year, we found ourselves spending the winter in Samara, Costa Rica, where our biggest challenge was deciding between SPF 30 or just hanging out under a palm tree in a hammock while listening to the waves crashing with storey tellers who we shared the magical moments with! Who knew “winter” could mean sand between our toes instead of frostbite on them?

Fast forward a few months and one too many Aporel Spritzes, we packed up our flip-flops and headed back to Canada. Spring brought us back north in a whirl of well worn beach attire, sandy sandals, and a chilly Canadian welcome. Re-entry was, shall we say, brisk. We were greeted by a pile of snow higher than our tiny home. (Perhaps this is a slight exaggeration!) Oh how we longed for the sounds of the jungle and sweltering and oppressive heat of Costa Rica in April!

 Speaking of which— Tiny home big news! We decided to sell our beloved home. Yes, the one where elbows up had a whole different meaning and were considered a luxury!

With a “For Sale” sign out front and a “Please Mind Your Head” sign inside, we watched our cozy palace go to new owners. It was bittersweet—gone are the days of seasonally stashed wardrobes in every available nook and cranny and playing “Guess where we put stuff” (Spoiler: it’s always in a tote in the crawlspace with a couple of toonies for emergency poutine runs).

But as they say in real estate, location is everything. So, we moved! We exchanged our tiny home for a shiny new to us condo in a different town. Now we have two proper bathrooms—ones where you don’t have to hold your breath as you shuffle in sideways, closets and room to twirl! The only thing tiny these days is the list of chores the condo association lets us do. It is liberating to no longer have to shimmy and wriggle to find the extras that have found new homes in closets. And to top it off, we have a guest room that is an actual room that even has a door!

As we settled into our new home, we gleefully leapt into summer with all the enthusiasm of over-caffeinated beavers. Our favourite pastime? Gliding into the sparkling local lake, shrieking at the first chilly dip, and then pretending we were born for northern waters. The lake was our bath, our pool, and our excuse to eat far too much ice cream.

The summer also meant it was time for the Great Adventures of the Bagel—our luxurious and beloved Minnie Winnie towable RV. We only managed to get the Bagel out camping twice (apparently, someone needs to invent a calendar app called “Don’t Forget To Camp!”). Each trip was filled with classic campfire tales, semi-toasted marshmallows, and at least one incident involving a squirrel and our breakfast cereal. The Bagel proved, once again, that adventure doesn’t come in square footage—it comes in rolling wheels and questionable WiFi.

Soon after we moved, I somehow found myself cast in a play all about diversity and acceptance—which, ironically, was a crash course on what I didn’t really know. My role? A middle-aged straight woman who, let’s just say, had lots of room for personal growth and absolutely zero idea what was going on most of the time. Picture me, clutching my script like a life raft, trying to wrap my head around pronouns, cultural potlucks, and why no one at rehearsal believed in casseroles. My character’s journey from “well-meaning but oblivious” to “mildly enlightened” was so relatable, it was like looking in a slightly judgy mirror. To this day, I’m convinced I was cast less for my acting chops and more for my ability to convincingly say, “Oh! I didn’t know that!” about twenty times in one scene. Honestly, method acting has never felt so natural.

Before the leaves turned, we gathered with family for Thanksgiving. It was a raucous, laughter-filled reunion complete with too much pumpkin pie, a turkey that might have been cooked by committee, and enough hugs to power a small city. We soaked up every moment before the migration began anew.

Of course, as true snowbirds-at-heart (and possibly allergic to winter coats), we’ve migrated again. This season, you’ll find us in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, Mexico. It’s pronounced “Hoo-an-a-cas-tlay,” but we just call it paradise. The only ice we see now is in our margaritas, and the greatest hazard is walking on cobblestone roads with rocks and craters large enough they would be named if they were in Canada.

As we hang our stockings on the nearest palm tree and listen to “Feliz Navidad” on repeat, we want you to know how much we miss (and occasionally pity) our northern loved ones. May your Christmas be merry, your shovels sturdy, and your hearts warm. And if you ever need a holiday, just bring sunscreen and an appetite for adventure.

With all our love and a bit of holiday mischief!

P.S. If you want to know where we are, just follow the trail of lost sandals, empty coconut shells, and maybe a rogue marshmallow or two from the Bagel.

P.P.S If you send us a toque, we’ll use it as a fruit basket.