When Dan and I first met, I was in the process of giving away everything I owned. I’d been playing with the idea of taking on that postcolonial ritual of former English majors– teaching English abroad. I’d had a bad year and was desperate for a major life change. One of my friends had successfully moved to Prague the summer before, and fleeing the country seemed like a plausible next step for me.
I’d been in the middle of trying to pawn off clothes and tchotkes I didn’t want to move, when a friend said, “You know, you might as well have some fun before you leave.” I’m sure my face turned into a perfect imitation of the grimace emoji, as it always does when I’m uncomfortable, but by the time I drove off into the icy dark, my friends were scouting out and scheduling potential dates.
When I first met Dan, I told him I was planning on leaving. And when he asked, some time later, if I’d consider waiting… well, I think I’d already withdrawn my applications by then, anyway.
But the idea of moving somewhere new stuck with us. We were living the most perfectly charmed and idyllic life. We had great jobs, amazing friends, a big house with a profligate vegetable garden, the most loyal and handsome dog who ever lived, and easy access to some of the most beautiful wilderness in all of America. And like a deranged Belle we kept shrieking, “There must be more than this provincial life!”
And that’s more or less how we came to be living in New York City.