Half of me thinks I ought to begin this post by saying that we are home, and for some definitions of that word, I suppose, we are. After a grand hurrah in Europe, I. and I sailed across the Atlantic one final time, docking in New York City, within sight of the Statue of Liberty, on a humid day in late July, and driving home with my parents in a minivan rented especially to accommodate our fourteen suitcases stuffed with some essentials, all the books I couldn't bear to give away, and a jumble of sentimental items. After three years and ten months abroad, most of the sentiment is contained in smaller places (the thousands of .jpgs on my hard drive, probably a million happy memories, and several dozen friendships that I hope will last for decades), but it was surprising to see how attached one can become to a three-pound candle holder from a charity shop (the candleholder, being large and unwieldy, returned to the charity shop from whence it came, but other similarly frivolous items are now sitting in suitcases, swaddled in shirts and tea towels and various undergarments).
Arriving in New York was far less exciting than was arriving in Southampton, nearly four years ago, and debarkation marked the end of our holiday and the beginning of the panicked job hunt, which has now been ongoing for almost exactly 24 hours. Fingers crossed, and if you'd like I. and I to move to your state, just give us a holler if you hear of any full-time job openings!
Photos from the last hurrah are forthcoming . . . stay tuned!
