On my final full day in Cambridge I spent the morning on the river, had coffee at Savinos, ate a picnic lunch next to the gravestones at Great St. Mary’s, bought water at Bacchanalia, picked up dinner from Nasreen Dar.
The first person I met six years ago was Rick, going on the sound principle that bike mechanics are my kind of folk. He has since moved from the market square to his own shop so I stopped in to chat and inhale the smell of metal and grease. This is the only place in town I have ever felt truly welcome (blame – or thank – a childhood whiled away in a petrol station) but this fact just underscores the reason I need to leave.
You might notice the lack of a farewell party, or any kind of parting from friends. That is easily explained: I have none. Or rather, I have the few I knew before arriving six years ago, and they will always know me.
The academics (and their families) I met have departed to new careers. Locals, townspeople? They don’t much like me. Except for the bike mechanics, and I’m not sturdy enough to join their bike polo and cross-country adventures.
It would be painful to contemplate this fact, but the fault is mine: I hate this town in principle and practice. My disdain is clearly communicated in every gesture, and what sensible person wishes to get tangled up in that kind of mess? I would not want to be friends with me, here.
Right now I feel a wrenching loss, but it is not related to Cambridge. Oh no; I regret what I left behind when I abandoned my life in Portland.
Circumstance, desire, and DNA dictated my departure and I have no regrets about the decision. I just wish I had appreciated what I had at the time. I didn’t know; I didn’t understand.