It feels like a rom-com at times, but after living alone for 20 years, it hasn’t been all roses.
Last month, my husband—who immigrated to the U.S. about four years ago from Albania—had his naturalization appointment. He passed the infamous oral test on the history and government of his soon-to-be-adopted country with flying colors, as well as the writing and reading in English portion.
The one thing missing? Proof of cohabitation. Apparently our application was “skeletal” in these details, though they still sent us the green card extension and scheduled the naturalization appointment. But when the immigration agent relayed the paperwork we still needed—insurance cards, the apartment lease, utility bills, etc.—a thought crossed my mind: The real proof is not on paper. It’s in the countless negotiations we’ve made to be able to live together happily. Or mostly happily.
I met Andi while I was on a writing retreat in Greece the summer of 2019. I was already in my 40s. By then, I’d lived alone for close to 20 years. I’d had some serious relationships in my 20s, but by 35 I was settling into spinsterhood; dating in New York City was for braver folks than I.
Andi had been working and living as a bachelor on a Greek island for many years. We skipped the body-count conversation when we first started dating. He just said, “I’ve had girlfriends,” and I said, “I’ve had boyfriends.” He pulled a face and that was the end of that conversation. We married when I was 44; he was 37.
Our meet-cute sounds like I made it up, but it’s true. I’d been laid off from a corporate job a few years before, and got a $5,000 “retraining allowance” as part of my severance package. I had spent about half of it taking classes in puppetry and architecture—the former a favorite hobby of mine, the latter an investment into my real estate-writing career—but because I was miffed at having been laid off, I wanted to use every dime. Late one night, possibly a bit tipsy, I searched online for “writing retreats in Greece.” Several months later, I was on Alonnisos, an island in the Aegean Sea. (It’s part of a collection of three islands called the Northern Sporades; the 2008 movie Mamma Mia! was filmed on the other islands.)
Andi and I first met at a souvlaki stand. It was actually my new friend from the retreat, Tara, who first noticed the shirtless hunk who was blocking our view of the water. She started taking to him and, in an extroverted moment, I stuck out my hand for a shake and said, “Hi, I’m Leslie.” He put his shirt on and chatted with us, inviting us to get a drink later. But he didn’t come out that evening; Tara and I hung out with some lesbians instead. The next day, I saw him again in front of the car rental place where he was working; it’s a small island. He had a bright smile, a relaxing energy, and knew all the best beaches. Plus, he had wheels and a very cute dog, Archie, who got a lot of attention from him. Kindness to animals = green flag.
I was supposed to stay on the island about 10 days—I stayed three weeks. Before the retreat ended, we’d meet in the afternoons to lie under umbrellas and watch the Aegean or visit his handyman jobs all over the island. Then I changed my flight and freelanced from the hotel and spent the rest of my time on the beach with Andi. I wasn’t thinking we’d be engaged soon; I was just having a good time. But when we waved goodbye from the ferry terminal, I knew I had to see him again. Four months later, in October, I visited Albania for the first time. I went back in February 2020, and when I returned to New York City on March 1, we were engaged. There wasn’t some Insta-worthy proposal, but we knew if we wanted to stay together, we’d have to make it official. I filed paperwork for a K-1 visa, aka the “90-day fiancé visa,” officially starting the immigration process.
Cue lockdown. I didn’t see him IRL for a full year, but we talked every day. So when he moved to my one-room, rent-stabilized apartment in March 2021 and started planning a May wedding, we’d spent a total of about eight weeks physically together. The logistics of living together took time to broker and remains an on-going process. A big part of the reason was, well, me. I’d been living alone for so long that I was not only used to having the final say in matters, but the only say.
Sleeping arrangements have been one of the biggest battles. He prefers a hot room; I’ve been known to keep my bedroom so cold you can see your breath. Andi likes to fall asleep to movies—extra points for high-action, explosions, and battles; I can’t watch anything violent at any time, especially not before bed. At first, Andi spread out like a starfish on the mattress, leaving me clinging on the edge for dear life. He also snores and sleeps like a log anywhere. I have life-long insomnia issues and often have to roll him over on his side in the middle of the night to get some peace. Headphones also help.
One of our biggest fights was over a mattress. We needed a new one; he went out and bought it without so much as a test bounce. He didn’t want to spend a lot of money and planned to put it over another mattress we already had. I’m quite particular about beds and I was livid that I wasn’t consulted. I sent a bunch of angry texts and he didn’t want to speak to me for several days. It wasn’t my best moment, but we found our way back to the table after I reminded him that we’re family now and that’s what families do. It was humbling, but also a relief to find common ground again. (That bed was a fucking marshmallow, however, and I couldn’t sleep for six months until we finally replaced it.)
I’m also a very organized hoarder. Andi is… not so neat. I have rows and rows of color coordinated books and boxes of every notebook I’ve ever written in, while Andi has a garage of tools that may have some organizational philosophy behind it, but none I could identify. Andi’s closet is a roiling sea of clothing; I organize mine by season and activity. I wash dishes (almost) immediately and keep kitchen counters clean. Andi forgets to put pizza boxes into the recycling and is disdainful of dishes. I’m also the one in charge of paperwork, bills, taxes, schedules, and, by the way, filing the correct paperwork and evidence to Immigration Services.
Andi has a laissez-faire attitude most of the time; his most recent catchphrase is “it is what it is.” Plans are soft with him, which makes my stress levels rise just writing the words. But he tries to keep things positive, even when I’m in a downward spiral of irrational worry.
And he makes things beautiful. Andi is an artist and a builder. He painted clouds on the walls of the apartment and made art from Hudson River driftwood. My husband was born under communism in Albania—he is one of the most resourceful people I know. If I had to choose someone to be stranded on a desert island with, it’d be him, hands down. I love him, but I also know he can build a shelter, make a fire, fish, and hunt.
About six months into our marriage, we bought a house in rural Connecticut (we kept the rent-stabilized apartment, as well). It was relatively cheap and we got in just before mortgage rates went up, but it was in truly rough shape. I was embarrassed by it, and I didn’t want anyone to see it. But Andi transformed it: sanded and refinished the hardwood floors, renovated the bathrooms, painted all the walls. He handmade all the furniture in my office, from custom bookshelves to a 10-foot table.
My whole life, I’ve wanted a treehouse. He built it for me. It has a deck and a little room with a drop-leaf table, in case anyone wants to write in there. When I got laid off in March and decided we needed to get chickens, he built a coop in a few days. He sources his own wood from our land and cuts it into planks with a chainsaw. We’ll never buy cords of wood; Andi cuts and collects all our firewood and grills meat in the fireplace all winter, too.
In 2019, when I told people I’d met an Albanian in Greece, many of them worried. Some thought he’d be violent (à la Liam Neeson’s 2008 film Taken), others thought his motives were more immigration-based, rather than true affection. My mother, especially, worried (I come by my high-stress personality naturally). He was able to win her over on their first meeting by baking a cake, but she was also impressed by his art and furniture.
“Not everyone gets to live with funk-a-tude, Les. That’s worth a lot,” she said when she visited our house for the first time. She’s an artist, too, and our family home was full of her work (plus a lot of plants and books). She did whatever she wanted decor-wise, and the effect is a funky house full of personality.
We celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary on the same day Andi had his naturalization appointment. The only thing left is to prove the life we’ve settled into is, in fact, real. I still can’t believe it, since our origin story is worthy of a rom-com.
We do have receipts. But the real proof is in every day decisions and on-going negotiations about screen time before bed. Also, we got a king-size mattress.
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by V.L. Hendrickson
Leslie Hendrickson is a freelance writer and editor based in New York City and Litchfield County, Connecticut. Her work has been published in The Wall Street Journal, The Hollywood Reporter, MarketWatch, The New York Times, Family Circle, ARTNews, and the late, great Jane magazine. A recent addition to the Jenny staff, Leslie serves on the steering committee of the Newburyport Literary Festival and is a graduate of Columbia’s J-School and St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She is also a puppet maker, an Agatha Christie aficionado, and has completed the New York City Triathlon—which includes a dip in the Hudson River—10 times.
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