Connecticut
Writer Caoilinn Hughes on 'The Alternatives'
ANDREW LIMBONG, HOST:
Sisters have a way of being there for you, holding you down when you’re going through it or standing up for you when your back’s against the wall. But also, golly, do they have a way of getting on your nerves. Just the decisions they make sometimes force you to really wonder, how are we related? This dynamic is deeply and thoroughly examined in the new novel “The Alternatives” by Irish author Caoilinn Hughes, who joins us now in studio. Hey, Caoilinn. Welcome to ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.
CAOILINN HUGHES: Hi, Andrew. Thank you so much for having me.
LIMBONG: Thanks for being here. So there are four Flattery sisters, right? There’s Nell, the youngest. She’s a philosophy professor in the U.S. There’s Maeve, a cookbook author and a Instagram famous chef, right?
HUGHES: Yes.
LIMBONG: There’s Rhona, a high-powered political science professor at Trinity College in Dublin. But can you tell us about the eldest daughter?
HUGHES: Yes. So Olwen Flattery is a geologist, and she was really my starting point with this novel. So I knew I wanted to write about women at work, and Olwen was the first one that arrived. And she’s a geologist, and I find that work to be really kind of deeply existential and fascinating. And I was writing the book in the west coast of Ireland, where I grew up, with this beautiful, wild landscape where you’ve got these kind of limestone shouldering through the fields and these wind-stripped hills. And that landscape is kind of like her in the fact that it’s wild and dynamic but somehow immovable. So that gave me a sense of Olwen. And also, she had big-sister vibes off the bat.
LIMBONG: She definitely does that, yeah.
HUGHES: Yeah. So I knew that it was going to be a book about women at work and also a novel about sisterhood – and a geologist, political scientist, a philosopher and a chef. And they definitely do walk into a bar.
(LAUGHTER)
LIMBONG: Yeah. You mentioned the big-sister vibes. Their parents died when they were younger. Olwen decides to deal with their grief by bailing, right? She leaves her partner, Jasper, and his two kids. And she sort of quietly ships off to a small town in Northern Ireland. She hides out there. She makes friends with the locals, sort of. And there’s a scene where she’s at the local pub, thinking about the current moment that I was hoping that you could read.
HUGHES: Oh, I’d love to.
(Reading) No radio played in the background. No TV was mounted in the corner. It impressed Olwen a great deal, that sort of commitment to the moment. What with Jasper’s video work and the fidgety sons and the students using apps to rack up telemarketing gigs in five-minute increments, she wasn’t used to such minimalism – the unadorned moment, the absolute basking in it. For all the cultural products having a moment, very few moments were up for grabs. Mindfulness was having a moment, and Nell had to gut her philosophy syllabus in response to present all thought as ahistorical. Localness was having a moment, a preview to the scarcity moment. And Maeve had to rehash her U.K. menu to flaunt its blue-and-red roots. Sustainability was having a moment, and Rhona had to dash off her op-eds explaining why the Green Party wasn’t. It was to do with the localness moment, which meant that Sinn Fein was having the sustainability moment. After so many years of trying to dig into the moment, to put it in context, to know its makeup, Olwen had forgotten how it felt to take it for granted.
LIMBONG: What is Olwen running from?
HUGHES: I think that she’s had a role as a caretaker, you know, and from a very, very young age. She’s had to be – to project hopefulness. And I wanted, in a way, to write about people who are caught up in the existential ropes of the climate crisis and what it is to love someone who does that work. And, you know, I do think that all novels are about love and care. In fact, I wanted to have an epigraph by James Baldwin where he says, love is the only reality, the only terror and the only hope.
And I think that moments – there’s moments of direct caregiving in the novel, you know, obviously, between the sisters, certainly towards Olwen and towards each other, between Rhona and her son, Leo, but also, you know, between one student who is gregarious and another student who doesn’t want to speak between, you know, a passing cyclist and a sheep stuck in the briar. I think paying attention is a form of care. So this is a type of – she wanted almost to relinquish herself of that responsibility – to care – for a moment.
LIMBONG: Outside of the core four, your writing has such an efficiency with side characters. And I’m curious. How much thought are you putting into the lives and backgrounds of these characters?
HUGHES: Yeah. I do think that if you were to take any five-minute segment of your day and think about the people that you bump into or someone that you just walked, brushed by and, you know, had an encounter with in a cafe, those people are so specific. And so I’m always trying to render that specificity when I’m writing. And so it’s not even something that I think about in terms of craft. It sort of happens naturally.
I’ve obviously taught a lot. And thinking about the types of students, you know, the ones that come in in these huge pairs of sunglasses and, you know, who – with a spliff on the table. Like, I taught in the Netherlands for a few years. And – I don’t know – I love thinking about each character with an un-capitalist amount of attention.
LIMBONG: (Laughter) You have sisters, right?
HUGHES: I do, yeah, two brothers and two sisters.
LIMBONG: Have your siblings read the book?
HUGHES: They’re – two of them are reading it as we speak.
(LAUGHTER)
LIMBONG: I was – yeah. Is this what it’s like in the Hughes house? You guys are just duking it out all the time?
HUGHES: Well, we so rarely get together now because we all live in different places. And, in fact, I suppose that’s partly why these sisters do live very distanced lives. At the beginning, it’s Olwen’s disappearance that brings them together, you know, for the first time in years. But it is chaotic. And it’s wonderful. And I do love being part of a big family. I loved being able to kind of disappear within it. And I am aware that this is now something that marks my generation as being maybe the last generation in Europe that has the privilege of having multiple siblings. And so, like, I’m, in a way, chronicling that.
LIMBONG: That was Caoilinn Hughes, author of “The Alternatives.” Caoilinn, thanks so much.
HUGHES: Thank you so much, Andrew. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by an NPR contractor. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.
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Connecticut
I moved from Connecticut to the South chasing a cheaper, simpler life. It wasn’t at all what I expected, so I moved back.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Sandra Bonola, 56, who moved from Connecticut to Charleston, South Carolina, in 2021, then to Beaufort, South Carolina, in 2023, before deciding the South wasn’t right for her. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
I am a native New Englander, born and raised in Connecticut. In late 2021, I started thinking seriously about moving. I’m an empty nester, and thanks to my remote job, I can work from anywhere in the country.
I was drawn to the South because people talked about it as if it were the promised land. The stories made it seem like it had better weather, cheaper homes, and a more affordable cost of living. I bought into that and told myself, “If I move to the South, I can have an easier life, and it won’t be as expensive.”
I decided to move to Charleston, South Carolina. I figured that there, I’d be outside more, near the beach, have a lower cost of living, and have access to the coast. I was also hoping for that small-town vibe and Southern charm.
I packed up the 2,500-square-foot Colonial I had lived in for 20 years and moved. I got rid of a lot of things I no longer needed and put the rest into storage.
I was really hopeful Charleston would be right for me. But about four months after moving there, I realized that almost everything I had hoped for was turning out to be the opposite.
I tested the waters in Charleston first
In Charleston, I stayed in a friend’s apartment and paid rent month to month while I decided whether I wanted to buy a home there. I’m grateful for that setup because it gave me a trial period. In those four months, I learned a lot about Charleston — and about what I actually wanted.
One of the first things I noticed was that everybody seemed to be moving there. The city was crowded, and navigating the downtown area was always challenging. Its streets were also full of traffic — it would take me up to an hour to try to get to downtown Charleston from John’s Island.
The city was also more expensive than I expected. I was somewhat insulated from housing costs because I was renting from my friend, but food, entertainment, and taxes were all much higher than I had anticipated.
Jeff Greenberg/Universal Images Group via Getty Images
The Southern charm I was hoping for also didn’t feel as I expected. Charleston has a big “going out” culture, much of which seems to revolve around where to eat or drink. That’s not really my thing. For me, the city lacked some of the creative flavor I was looking for.
The climate was another big factor. Everyone knows New England can have brutal winters, and I don’t like shoveling snow, so I was eager to get away from that. But after moving South, I realized I had traded brutal winters for brutal summers. It was just so hot.
At first, I thought I just needed time to adjust. But the more I explored Charleston, the more I realized the lifestyle I had imagined didn’t match my reality.
I was getting annoyed, then frustrated, and then I was done.
I tried the South again, but it still wasn’t for me
I didn’t feel like I had anything to lose, so I moved back to Connecticut in 2022. Instead of feeling defeated, I actually felt grateful that I had given Charleston a shot.
For a while, I rented a month-to-month beach house in Connecticut while I looked for a home to buy. But the homebuying search in New England felt bleak. I was trying to downsize, but even the smaller homes came with big-home prices. It made me feel like I might never find what I was looking for.
After house hunting for 14 months in Connecticut, I really wanted to put down roots. The idea of moving to a quieter, more affordable small town was still appealing. So in July 2023, I decided to try the South again — this time in Beaufort, South Carolina, a small town I had explored while living in Charleston.
There, I was able to purchase a beautiful three-bedroom ranch home for $425,000. It was a new build in a planned community.
The house checked a lot of boxes. It was beautiful, new, and far more affordable than what I could have bought in Connecticut. But I still didn’t feel at home in Beaufort.
Affordability is important, but you also need community
In Beaufort, it was so hot that I rarely saw or interacted with my neighbors. People would say hello and then quickly go back inside. I kept thinking, “How am I ever going to socialize here?”
I joke that I’m an OG remote worker because I started working remotely in 2008. Remote work gives you some social interaction, but you still need to get outside and make real connections with people.
I tried to put myself in situations where I could meet people. I looked for yoga classes, local events, and other activities I could join. But what I found was that many people had moved there for family or moved with a spouse, and they mostly kept to themselves.
It lacked the kind of community connection I was used to seeing in the Northeast. I kept trying to make those connections and stay open to it, but it just kept falling flat.
I tell people this story, and sometimes they understand it, and sometimes they don’t. But I knew I was done one morning when I woke up, looked at the ceiling fan in my bedroom, and thought, “I really hate that fan, and I’m losing hope for my life.”
I didn’t appreciate Connecticut’s beauty until I moved back
In 2024, I moved back to Connecticut. Right now, I’m living on the coast in an apartment inside a refurbished Civil War-era hospital. I’m on one of the top floors, so I can see the boats and the water.
I’m still searching for a home and making offers with more confidence. Home prices are high here, but prices down South are creeping up, too.
I’ve started thinking about owning in Connecticut more as an investment in both my future and my happiness. I’ve set a budget of about $800,000 for a home, though some of the homes I’ve been interested in have been closer to $650,000.
I’m seeing possibilities I didn’t see before, and that’s exciting.
Kate Stoupas/Getty Images
Being back in Connecticut has been eye-opening. I don’t think I fully appreciated its beauty until I had something to compare it to.
There’s so much opportunity here. I love the energy and the people. I’ve been taking advantage of the location, too, doing things like hopping on a train to New York to see a show or making more of an effort to connect with friends.
When I think about whether I’d move somewhere else again, I keep coming back to something a photographer once told me in Massachusetts. He had lived in Bali with his family, and I remember asking, “You lived in Bali? Why would you come to Massachusetts?”
I’ll never forget what he told me. He said, “I can go anywhere in the world from an airport, but you really have to realize the ground beneath your feet is beautiful if you choose to see it that way.”
That stayed with me. It changed the way I think about Connecticut and made me realize I needed to take the blinders off. There was beauty right at my feet — I just needed to see it.
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