Honestly, I should have started this post a few days ago, when my Month of Moving really started. Here's the deal: I leave for Blargistan at the end of June and will be there through the beginning of August. I leave for FPU somewhere in mid-August. It seemed beyond silly to pay six weeks' rent (not cheap, even in Grit City Beach) for 10-days' residency.
The upshot of this is that I'm giving up my apartment at the end of the month, and will be living out of a suitcase and a PO Box for about seven weeks.
"How Exciting!" say my friends.
Well, yes. Sort of. But so are plane crashes.
If you knew me a little well, you'd know I am in many ways a homebody, even a little bit of a nester. I like "my space" -- everything just so.
I have a particular table in every coffee shop that I like to sit in
(and this includes the coffee shops in the foreign cities I pass
through). I like to recognize and be recognized by people in my
But if you knew me very, very well, you'd know that I am, paradoxically, very uncomfortable with anchors. Anything that might inhibit my freedom to move more or less as I pleased would make me twitchy. Even though I don't often take advantage of that freedom, I just need to know it's there: that I could be halfway across the world in a matter of weeks or months at most. That I don't have to negotiate my choices.
In other words, the essential paradox is that I freak out at the threat of being anchored, but I get nervous if I'm completely unrooted. And now I'm going to spend almost two months without a fixed address, anywhere in the world.
This should be interesting.