A gossip queen who passed me mean-spirited notes in class. A bosomy artist whose bedroom was painted black. A track and field star who introduced me to all-ages nightclubs and boys. A moodier one who introduced me to Pearl Jam.
In the rotating cast of best friends I collected through elementary school, each girl was wildly different. None lived more than four blocks from the greying tower where I grew up in Toronto, and so several times a week, we’d pick away at homework, dissect our crushes and practise our mortifying dance moves, circa Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation. Day in, day out, we couldn’t tire of each other.
By high school, we’d all gone our separate ways. When Facebook came along we reconnected briefly, but soon their feeds filled with wedding photos, new homes and baby announcements. We’d fallen into the silos of family life and career, moved away and met new, adult friends.
What if we had all remained in the same four-block neighbourhood and not abandoned our regular play dates? Would we have outgrown each other and radiated out into our own lives anyway?
We certainly didn’t try as hard as the seven Texans on “Bestie Row.” A set of fiftysomethings who have known each other for decades, they decided to kick their friendships up a notch by buying land together and pitching down cabins side-by-side. The result is an enchanting respite from life’s daily hassles, where your friends are just one door away.
At least half a dozen times a year, the coed group of friends congregates on a shared 10-acre property outside of Austin on the Llano River. They do the things that friends do as kids – riding bikes on country roads and setting off fireworks. And they do the things friends do when they grow up: elaborate dinners followed by deep talks. The group includes journalists, a landscape architect, an accountant and a pair of ex-spouses, and they initially called their new communal home the “Llano Exit Strategy.”
“It’s kind of like the feeling in college of living in a dorm. There’s always somebody you can grab to have a beer with and talk to,” says Jodi Zipp, a retired lawyer who goes up with her husband Fred. “Being out there for a long weekend and getting to settle in and sit and chat, it deepens your friendship and your connection. It’s really satisfying.”
The friends began contemplating a shared vacation home 15 years ago. “When we first talked about it we were going to get little Airstream trailers and put them in a circle,” recalls Zipp, 58.
By 2012, the plan morphed into four 350-sq-ft galvanized aluminum cabins. There’s also a sleek 1,500-sq-ft shared building called “the Commons” with a commercial kitchen, patio and living room for football and movie nights, plus a bunk room for visitors. Everybody comes up for the Fourth of July, (this year they smoked five chickens and assembled five potato salads), Thanksgiving, Christmas holidays and other dates they all agree on.
“It’s an old-school romantic idea: to do stuff with your friends for life,” said Matt Garcia, the Austin-based architect who designed the project. “They’re having a ball.”
After being featured on architectural websites, the Llano Exit Strategy went viral. The group has been inundated by e-mails from adults who yearn to do the same thing with their childhood and university friends.
“The idea of being that close to good friends, it’s something people long for. It’s sort of your lost youth. Being able to recreate that is really special,” says Zipp.
Like all roommate setups, interpersonal tension is something to watch for: Separate sleeping cabins are key. Because let’s face it, even BFFs can eventually get on your nerves.
“It’s so much nicer than if it were a four-bedroom house. When you go to the cabin for some alone time you’re really separated from everybody. When you’re ready to get back to socializing, everybody’s gathered in the Commons,” says Zipp stressing that despite some snide remarks made by a Today Show anchor, the Llano Exit Strategy is not some hippie commune – there’s decidedly no wife-swapping going on.
Earlier this month, when a run to Home Depot with my boyfriend put me squarely back in my old hood, I asked him to drive slowly: I wanted to travel down a nostalgic rabbit hole to my own Bestie Row. “I think that’s the one,” I said pointing to a bungalow with a neat tree shading it. I stared at the front door, remembering nights my Grade 8 best friend and I would emerge in our Le Château finery, heading out to some dry-ice-heavy, all-ages club.
As we rolled away, I was stunned to see her – the track champ – walk out and chat with someone on her porch. At 36, Patricia somehow looked exactly the same; for several minutes I deliberated saying hello.
In the end I decided that showing up on your best friend’s doorstep after 20 years to “catch up” probably qualifies as weird. I’d Facebook her instead, from a safer distance.