One afternoon in Seattle I happened upon a friend I haven’t seen in two years and he asked what I’ve been up to.
I answered Not much – my life has been rather boring lately.
Later in the week I took the ferry to the place I was born, and from there a smaller ferry to my hometown. I was dismayed to find the latter has been replaced by a shiny new touring vessel; the decrepit ship that took Navy Yard workers across the bay throughout my childhood was set adrift and allowed to sink when the line went bankrupt a few years ago.
I was pondering the fact that I am now too old to realize a youthful ambition to join the ferry service – literally the only discernible career goal I have ever formed – when I remembered the conversation with my friend.
Staring at the shores of the beautiful, horrible place where I grew up, it seemed inconceivable that I have traveled so far from home.
When I was a little kid I was afraid to visit Seattle because the trip was too long, the buildings too tall. Now I claim to be bored because over the course of eighteen months I have only managed to visit the US, France, Germany, Spain, and the Czech Republic.
Growing up mutilated and poor, I was ashamed and lonely. Now I feel fretful because I do not have enough time with friends scattered across the world.
When the boat docked I dragged myself out of the marina and stood on the curb in front of the cinderblock library built with no windows on the bayside, watching the sun go down over warships, wondering all over again at the ravishing perplexity of the place.