Do You Have a Guy? Relocation confessions from a city girl addicted to small-town fantasies.
Do you have a guy?
“Maggie! Curious much?! I don’t have a guy and I am juust fine, thankyouverumuch.”
Mmm, I disagree. Something tells me you have a guy. More than one, even. And a few gals as well.
“🤭 Maggie?! Please! And what does it have to do with relocation? “
A few years ago, we rented a house in a small town on the Halkidiki peninsula in Northern Greece.
The house was as cliché as possible. The way everybody imagines a house in Greece: small, white, with blue-painted shutters and fence, a huge yard with old trees and a hammock, just 20 metres from the water and about the same distance on the other side from the main square with stores, cafés, restaurants, and the promenade.
There was a bakery nearby, a fish store not far away, all the conveniences one might need for the sweet Greek life.
So one warm (but not too warm) summer morning, as I was twirling and chirping and singing in the kitchen, wondering what to make for lunch, I asked my husband, “Can you please go to the guy?”
“ A kilo,” I answered. “Unless you get a few other things.”
“Ok. I’ll see what he recommends.”
“A kilo of what, Maggie? Gosh, you are annoying when you’re so cryptic,” I could almost hear the dear reader say.
Patience, grasshopper. I’m coming to it.
See, everywhere we go, we try and find guys. And gals. For buying fish, veggies, bread. For fixing the car. Hairdressing and cosmetic services. A doctor. A dentist. Even if we stay at a place for only three or six months.
The guy I was referring to was the owner of a fish store, quite a distance from where we lived. But his produce was fresh, he would clean the fish or octopus or calamari for us so thoroughly that we didn’t have to clean after him (unlike the nearby fish store). He gave discounts because we were regulars (unlike the other fish store, where they’d try to cheat us on prices because we were foreigners). He would even engage in conversation, give tips, and sometimes throw in extra seafood.
Was it the most convenient place to buy seafood? No. Was it the cheapest? Not at all. But we were ready to pay premium prices because we didn’t get scammed with farmed fish, we didn’t get old produce, we didn’t get half-cleaned octopus (if you’ve ever cleaned one, you know what I mean).
It’s always useful to have a guy. But the right guy. Because sometimes you get recommendations: “Oh, I know a cheap guy.”
Well, you know this Venn diagram: Cheap, Fast, High Quality — choose 2.
So, if you offer quality, if you offer solutions to pain points, or even something that is just for pleasure, you shouldn’t be afraid to charge premium prices.
But you know what’s even better than having a guy, though? Choices. It’s better to have choices.
I’m a city girl. Always have been. I spent most of my adult years between Vienna, New York, Oslo, Sofia, Thessaloniki… Give me skyscrapers, give me late-night bookstores, give me the pleasure of listening to a variety of languages on a street corner, give me the possibility of anonymity… Cities have been my element for decades.
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But. Buut, but. Here’s where things get confusing. My screen time tells a different story. The shows I rewatch — they feel like eating comfort food, like wearing your favorite worn-out but so comfortable cardigan, like being snug under a 30-year-old blanket with a cup of hot cocoa, marshmallows on top, and a nice, relaxing book in hand.
You know the shows I am talking about: Gilmore Girls, Good Witch, Hart of Dixie, Cedar Cove, Chesapeake Shores. All set in places so small you could cover them in an afternoon walk. Quaint squares. A gazebo on the square. Diner breakfasts. Neighbors who have known each other their entire lives and who argue about the most important things in life, such as whose pumpkin pie is better.
So there must be something wrong with me, right? And, also, what is it I really want? The city? Or the small town?
Why does a woman who thrives in big places curl up with stories where the biggest drama is whether the town troubadour will show up on time?
For a long time, I thought it was just escapism, you know. Feel-good fluff. A safe detour from the mess of real life. But here’s the truth I stumbled upon: It isn’t about the size of the place. It has very much to do with the size of the circle.
I think those shows aren’t really about small towns. They’re about what it feels like to belong to a web of people who notice if you’re gone. People who’ll bring soup when you’re sick, tease you at the café, and rope you into the annual apple pie contest whether you like it or not.
It’s not about the size of the place. It’s more about, um, what am I looking for here? I think, intimacy? It’s about having a guy. A circle. A network. A sense of belonging.
This became pretty obvious when we went to Norway this winter with my husband, Stein. It was a sad occasion — the passing of my mother-in-law. The silver lining was that suddenly, I was surrounded by Stein’s sprawling family: sister, brother, nieces, nephews, grand-nieces, grand-nephews, cousins, uncles. A whole tree of people who didn’t just exist, but showed up. From all corners of this very, very, very long country. There was a sense of predictability, of built-in support.
I wanted that. Badly.
Because on my side, there isn’t much. On my parents’ side, practically nobody. Over the years, I’ve also deliberately cut ties with people who drained me, betrayed me, or are not on my wavelength regarding worldviews, leaving only three or four good friends I keep close. The result is independence. I don’t deny that. And freedom in a way. But also loneliness. Add to that nearly 18 years of living the location-independent life, and it takes its toll.
Seeing Stein’s family made me realize what I’d been craving all along: the “I have a guy” feeling. But not only a guy. Need a plumber? Call my cousin. Need advice? Talk to my aunt. Somebody needs business advice, relocation advice, writing advice? Bring them on, I can help. That net of people who make life not just bearable, but anchored. And not just for favors. For comfort. For trust. For mutual support.
So here’s my realization — all my running, the moving countries, the reinventions, the endless motion — wasn’t just wanderlust. This was a search. A search for that one place where I could finally stop running and start creating a circle of my own. A place that doesn’t “have it all” but has most of it.
That’s why those shows feel like, um, home? They model what I’ve been chasing: Not a slower pace. A steadier circle. Not smaller towns, closer bonds.
So where does that leave those of us who crave the circle, but live in cities? Do we sell our apartments, buy a cottage, and hope the neighbors bring over pie? Not necessarily.
Here are some ways I’ve found to create that small-town feeling without giving up your city soul:
If you’ve been moving, shifting, reinventing, ask yourself: Am I really running toward adventure, or am I running toward roots?
For me, the answer was clear. All my motion wasn’t just escape. It was a search for the one place where I could settle. Where the circle could finally start weaving.
I know that we all want freedom. That we all want possibility. But at some point, what we (at least most of us) crave is predictability. People who notice. Circles that hold.
The small towns on our screens aren’t asking us to move to a small place. I think what they’re selling us is belonging. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what all of us are chasing when the lights go out and the credits roll.
The next (hopefully long) chapter of my life will be in Cannes. Yes, I see the irony in that.
What about you — are you still running, or have you found your circle? And have you ever found your roots in the last place you expected?
I’d love to read your answers — be it an email, a comment, or a private message, I read them all and respond personally.
Originally published at https://rivieradiaries.substack.com.
