Moving. I’m an expert at it.
I have the unending morass of my childhood to thank. It planted in me a sense of desperation to break free and breathe. What kept me alive during those difficult years? A battered Appalachian trail guide and emergency survival kit. I promised myself that I’d trace the entire AT once I left home for good.
Instead, I moved all over the U.S. after college — Cape Cod, Colorado, Jersey City, NYC (Brooklyn, South Bronx, UES), Hudson river towns, Portland OR, Las Vegas, Florida, Vermont.
If I had a hankering for say, the West Coast, I’d fit whatever I could in my hatchback and go. This was after months of silent contemplation — but I always made it look like I was doing it on the fly.
Some of the moves were just to move. Some were for love. Some to run away. (A memorable one was in the dead of the night, a 350 Honda hitched to my Tercel with a mewking Avery in the front seat). Some were the “fuck you, you’ll miss me” pack ups. A few were purely economical. Other moves were opportunities I couldn’t pass up. A couple were the lick-my-wounds kind.
Most of them took me to places where I didn’t know a soul. There was so much pleasure in starting fresh, building a life and finding my way. I needed to prove something: to my perfectionist father and the emerging woman. I needed to learn about courage, over and over again.
This was freedom to me. More »
