Nuclear Candy

so sweet, it's explosive.

A Dear John to House Hunters International.


Dear HHI,

You know I adore you, but I’m beginning to realize how many hours I’ve given to you. Yes, I gave them willingly. And yes, you gave back through lessons of international property pricing and appreciation of my dishwasher and walk-in closet. But things just aren’t feeling like they used to.

I accepted you for what you were, even when your tendency to stage a story came to light. I still loved you. I followed you to Dubai and Dublin, to Bogota and Bydgoszcz. I’m glad I did, really. I just can’t do it anymore. You’re just too much. You come into my life too often, with sudden bursts of episode after episode after episode. And then you vanish, for days or even weeks, with no indication you’ll ever return. Quit playing games with my heart and with my DVR settings. (Apologies for being blunt, but I had to say it like it is.)

And you’ve changed. My darling has turned from the inspirational, captivating purveyor of couples, families and individuals taking their destinies in their own hands with a passport and maybe some savings is no longer. You are now the champion of middle-aged white American couples looking to add a safe (read: local-free) yet exotic property to their portfolio. Why did you do this to yourself? Have you lost the appreciation of character and the joy of opening global flavors to the uninitiated? It kills me to see you this way, pandering to the worshippers of granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. I beg you, take a look at yourself. You’re better than this.

My darling, I’m afraid we’re through.*


Your former international delight,


(*That is, unless you come to me with episodes of original rough beams, lacking American ovens and low ceilings. If you do, my DVR and heart will be open.)


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A Dear John to House Hunters International.