I may not have mentioned this before, but I live in an incredibly dull place.
The aesthetics cannot be faulted: the town is breathtakingly beautiful, awash in ancient churches and gorgeous university buildings. The surrounding countryside is tranquil and serene, and I’ve never been as soothed by landscape in my life.
In terms of work, this is quite likely the best place for me to live (for now). I’m surrounded by people who think for a living. I’m no longer the odd one out; I can talk easily about what I do, without worrying that it will cause an awkward gap in the conversation or solicit unwarranted attention. Or at least I can pretend that this is true, which was never possible in the states.
But while the cultural offerings are plentiful – with museums, classical concerts, plays, and lectures all competing for attention – by moving here I unwittingly cut myself off from an entire familiar lifestyle. Yes, there is a music scene, but it is much smaller than one would expect in a university town, because the indie rockers and punks do not typically matriculate at this particular institution. Likewise, they rarely settle here.
There is precisely one good video store, and it is so far away I rarely make the time to ride over. There is exactly one good restaurant (though in this opinion I am biased as I deny standing to places that cost more than thirty pounds sterling per person on average).
There is absolutely no independent publishing scene. Although I have a few zine friends in town, we have no clubhouse. There is nothing like the Hugo House or the IPRC to sustain my social needs.
Probably the worst thing: I don’t have sufficient space to throw my enormous parties.
For the most part, the lack of distraction is good for me. I’ve accomplished more in the last year than I would have back home, with shows and events and readings to attend.
But I do miss my old life sometimes, and I am currently spinning with joy over an upcoming trip. I’m going to spend some time with my family, arrive in Portland in time for Anna Ruby’s birthday party, do a reading, and then fly to San Francisco, where I will see countless amazing friends. Then I will rendezvous with Gabriel and embark on a four-day working road trip: an abundance of riches.
It will be strange to go home again; the trip has the possibility of swinging perilously from exultation to morbid sorrow. But I am still extremely pleased to be going.
In a similar vein, Byron went to Seattle to give a talk at TechFest and had various madcap adventures with Jeffrey, Anika, and assorted people I haven’t met yet.
It is odd to reflect on our life in that city; we weren’t even there long enough to unpack, and rarely went out. I was writing a book and nursing a broken tailbone and had decided to hibernate instead of socialize (despite – or maybe because – over two hundred people showed up for the housewarming party).
This was a necessary rest, after leaving behind an existence that often looked more like a community centre than a private life.
Byron had ditched the vicissitudes of a start-up for a job with a major company, splitting his time between research and development, which kept his mind engaged in a hyper-real fashion. We owned a beautiful house on a hill, and, for the first time ever, enough money to pay bills.
But we were both confronting questions about what we wanted from life:
Material possessions and stability, or uncertainty and adventure?
Familiar experiences or new?
Stay or go?
I didn’t want to leave the landscape of my youth, and refused to consider various possibilities on principle. Byron, in his impetuous and curious fashion, continued to tempt me with options of a whole new life far from home.
I said no several times, until the day he called and asked Want to move to England?
Five weeks later, we were here.
Life in the UK is certainly different, in ways that are both delightful and strange. I do not regret the move.
Though it is nice to know that I can always go home to visit, and that the west coast party continues unabated.