In this satirical monologue, the speaker (Speaker A) lampoons the common Canadian fantasy of abandoning urban life for a romanticized existence on Prince Edward Island (PEI). Drawing on cultural touchstones such as "Anne of Green Gables," "Road to Avonlea," and the image of red‑dirt roads, fiddles, and white farmhouses, the speaker outlines the idealised vision many Canadians entertain after stressful days or bleak winters. The monologue then systematically dismantles that vision by listing the practical realities of PEI life: reliance on well water, limited Sunday services, long waits for family doctors, the absence of nearby big‑box retailers, harsh weather (black flies, high wind speeds, heavy snow), low internet speeds, and the need for self‑sufficiency skills like changing propane tanks. It also notes the social friction newcomers may face, with locals questioning "Who's your people?" The speaker acknowledges a personal affection for PEI but stresses that the island is a place, not a Pinterest board or a mental‑health escape. The piece concludes with a tongue‑in‑cheek piece of advice—visit in February, talk to locals, and temper expectations—while recognizing that the fantasy itself fuels Canadian imagination. A brief exchange follows where Speaker B identifies as Anne Shirley, reinforcing the cultural reference.
Chapters
Tell me I'm wrong. Every Canadian at some point in their life has had the tiny island fever dream. Screw it, I'm moving to PEI. It always comes out the same way. A little breathless, a little wistful, usually after a stressful day or a particularly grim bout of February in Toronto. One minute you're watching reruns of Road to Avonlea, and the next you're on MLS searching for a charming fixer-upper in Souris with ocean views and inexplicably 8 bedrooms. We all do it. We imagine ourselves walking down a red dirt road, hand in hand with nobody, because we've left behind our jobs and our landlords, our student loans, that one neighbor who uses a leaf blower year round. Gone. It's just us, a white farmhouse, a barn cat, and the distant sound of a fiddle. We tell ourselves, "This, this is the life I was meant to live." Except no, it isn't, because it's not even close. Most of us wouldn't even last 2 days on PEI, maybe 3 if there's a lobster roll involved. The fantasy always skips the part where you're on well water. Half the island shuts down on Sundays. You imagined a charming co-op bookstore which used to be a lighthouse. You did not imagine being 4,572 in line for a family doctor, or that the nearest IKEA is a ferry ride and a 6-hour drive away. You didn't think about black flies. You never googled PEI wind speed averages. You think your reusable tote bags and support local t-shirts qualify you to live in a small maritime community, you don't even know how to change a propane tank. You think everyone's going to meet the new come-from-away-in-town and be thrilled? They're not. "Who's your people?" they'll ask. If you don't have an answer, then you're from not here. I love PEI. I've only been there twice, but I go there dozens of times in my dreams. It's beautiful, it's kind, it's strange in all the best ways. But it's a place. It's not a Pinterest board. It's not a mental health escape hatch for every burned-out mainlanders who's watched Anne with an E too many times. And the people who do make it work run farms, they haul traps, they shovel more snow than should ever exist in one province. The only thing more grounded than the people of PEI is their internet speed. So go ahead, dream your little dream of a PEI escape. Look at the listings, talk about selling everything and starting over. But before you put your house on the market and buy a 20-year-old Ford Ranger and a lobster bib, maybe visit in February. Talk to a local. See how long you last with no Costco and a snowplow schedule that works on a best effort basis. Fantasy is fine. It's what keeps this country going. Let's not kid ourselves. Most of us don't actually want to live in PEI. We just want to become the person who could. And that's okay. That's Canadian. We dream big and then we come to our senses just in time for spring. And weeks later we're back on our couch thinking— I wonder how much houses go for in Tofino.
