Yesterday I was happily humming along, sweeping leaves off the top of my boat, and pulled the gangplank off to clean it. In a flash I was struck suddenly at the peculiarity that I am in charge of a gangplank, let alone a boat, and that of course dilated into a larger sense of astonishment that I live in Cambridge, England.
This town, more than most, is a transient sort of place. The student population – tens of thousands of people – swells and dissipates every few weeks, notable to me only insofar as it is sometimes hard to buy bread.
Old friends show up to marvel at the eccentricity of my life here, then they go home again. I make new friends, and they finish their degree or sabbatical and leave.
The people in my family scatter across the world and come back together in unpredictable ways. I spend perhaps a third of each year traveling. Most of my time when I’m in town is spent on a narrowboat – and though it is moored securely, I can pull up stakes and move any time.
Even the most serious commitments I have agreed to are contingent on the fact that I can, and will, make impetuous decisions and alter everything without warning. As far as I can recollect the choice to abandon my first career was made on a whim one afternoon.
Moving away from Portland, leaving Seattle, emigrating here – all completely random choices involving nothing much more involved than just saying yes.