In the spring of 2009, rather abruptly, my parents moved from Fresno, California, to Boston, Massachusetts. Their move coincided with my graduation from college. I skipped the ceremony and flew out of the John Wayne Airport in Orange County with all my worldly possessions (all the ones I could cram into an ancient suitcase and a backpack, at any rate).
I think I felt sort of shell-shocked at the time. College had been an ordeal for a number of reasons, and it was hard to imagine it was suddenly done with. I had survived. It was over, forever. I always left Irvine in the summers, but now I was never coming back. The fact that I was leaving my beloved home state was a thought I staunchly forced out of my mind. I knew rationally, of course, that I was leaving, and unlikely to come back anytime soon, though I would not have really fathomed how permanent a departure this would be. I chose to focus solely on the process of getting from Point A to Point B.
Point B was, at least for a few days, Boston. For reasons beyond the scope of this blog post, I had decided to move to Poland after graduating from college to teach English as a Second Language. The plan was for me to spend a few days in Boston with my parents, and then my mother and I would fly to Poland. She would help me settle in, and then leave, and I would remain.
The night I arrived in Boston is one of those memories I can easily call up in my mind, but really prefer not to remember. I was frazzled and exhausted and it was cold and rainy. My dad picked me up and brought me to a friend's house where he and my mom were staying. I quickly realized that in my exhaustion, I had dropped my iPod somewhere between the airplane and the friend's house. I became hysterical (as did my father, who was likely also quite tired and short-tempered at this point).
I woke up the next morning with puffy eyes. I walked down the stairs into the accommodating friend's living room, and promptly burst into tears again. My dad now sometimes tells this story and laughs at how pitiful I was; when he asked why I was crying yet again, I simply wailed, "I want to go home!"
Boston continued to be grey and cold in those few days. My Californian blood could not accept that it was 50 degrees in June and raining. I didn't even own a raincoat. My parents offered to let me live with them for a few months in Boston. They were convinced that I must be terrified of moving all the way across the ocean to a foreign(ish) country. And they were right.
But to me, the alternative - staying in Boston - was worse. I left.
I think I felt sort of shell-shocked at the time. College had been an ordeal for a number of reasons, and it was hard to imagine it was suddenly done with. I had survived. It was over, forever. I always left Irvine in the summers, but now I was never coming back. The fact that I was leaving my beloved home state was a thought I staunchly forced out of my mind. I knew rationally, of course, that I was leaving, and unlikely to come back anytime soon, though I would not have really fathomed how permanent a departure this would be. I chose to focus solely on the process of getting from Point A to Point B.
Point B was, at least for a few days, Boston. For reasons beyond the scope of this blog post, I had decided to move to Poland after graduating from college to teach English as a Second Language. The plan was for me to spend a few days in Boston with my parents, and then my mother and I would fly to Poland. She would help me settle in, and then leave, and I would remain.
The night I arrived in Boston is one of those memories I can easily call up in my mind, but really prefer not to remember. I was frazzled and exhausted and it was cold and rainy. My dad picked me up and brought me to a friend's house where he and my mom were staying. I quickly realized that in my exhaustion, I had dropped my iPod somewhere between the airplane and the friend's house. I became hysterical (as did my father, who was likely also quite tired and short-tempered at this point).
I woke up the next morning with puffy eyes. I walked down the stairs into the accommodating friend's living room, and promptly burst into tears again. My dad now sometimes tells this story and laughs at how pitiful I was; when he asked why I was crying yet again, I simply wailed, "I want to go home!"
Boston continued to be grey and cold in those few days. My Californian blood could not accept that it was 50 degrees in June and raining. I didn't even own a raincoat. My parents offered to let me live with them for a few months in Boston. They were convinced that I must be terrified of moving all the way across the ocean to a foreign(ish) country. And they were right.
But to me, the alternative - staying in Boston - was worse. I left.
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