On May 22, 2002 I was offered a choice: stay in Portland, in my awesome house, living in a beloved community surrounded by friends, or pursue a new and somehow old adventure.
That was to move to Seattle, the city I knew best from childhood hospitalizations and countless obscure music shows in my youth. I picked Seattle and within days had miraculously also purchased an implausibly beautiful house from a friend.
Then, two years later, another choice – stay in my fantastic home on Beacon Hill, near my biological family, in a city that represents my every youthful ambition and desire. Or leave, throw it all away, emigrate to Europe?
On May 22 2004 I was sitting on a bench outside the Fort St. George, a riverside pub in Cambridge England, bemused and horrified to encounter my newly adopted home city for the first time.
I stared at the river, wondering if I had made a huge mistake, and then noticed the narrowboats moored on the banks. This, I thought, will do.
That hunch proved accurate; the river is the best part of the city, and I am thrilled every day to hang out on my boat. May 22 has since retained a strange significance, with secrets and excursions small and large accruing to that date in the calendar.
Early in the day this year I had a misguided encounter with a baguette, piece of brie, and a butter knife, slicing three fingers open – ouch! It is quite likely I am the only person who could sustain such a serious wound with such poor equipment. So much to celebrate!
