Pulling up stakes

Much has been made (by me) of a big move (by me) from Boston to England. "Why, Kerry?" I asked. "Why England, why now?" "I will reveal all in my blog," I replied. Then I noticed as I stared into the mirror talking to myself that my brows could do with some plucking and I lost my train of thought. Also, I didn't have a blog. You can imagine the withering look I gave myself, with the one raised (ungroomed) eyebrow, you know that look, and my reflection was like, "Fine! I'll do it! Get off my back already!" And that, dear reader, is how I finally done a blog. 


As Dickens once wrote, I was born in England, some years ago, after Rolling Stones 12x5 but before Exile on Main Street. My dad was stationed in London with the U.S. Air Force and we moved to Boston when I was still little; I never even had an accent. But being born in London became my "thing." This was made evident when I started a new school in 5th grade and Billy Hickey shouted out "The British are coming! The British are coming!" when I was introduced to my new class. Ha ha! What a card. Even at 11, his grasp of U.S. history was more sound than Sarah Palin's, so he had that going for him.


My English friends may find it amusing that being born in England would be considered exotic, but in my homogeneous neighborhood, I may as well have been from Myanmar, or Ohio. In a sea of blue-green eyes, pale Irish skin and Boston accents, I stood out... not at all. We were all exactly alike. That's why being born in England could become my thing. I felt lucky to have a thing, quite frankly. Joey and Paula Richter were twins; they were the only other kids in my class with a gimmick. Well played, Richters. Well played.


I grew up -- and remain -- a rabid Anglophile, I guess you could say, although I always rejected the term on the basis of having been born there. "I'm not an Anglophile," I argued. "I'm actually a British citizen. I'm a me-ophile, if anything." But I can see where that doesn't actually make sense. So from wearing out my dad's Beatles records on my Fisher-Price LP player, to discovering Monty Python (though I'm told they already existed before I found them), to my love of punk rock & new wave (1982-present), to my whole Jane Austen thing, if it had an English accent, I was all over it. I mean, just look at my "following" list on Twitter. (Hi guys, I love you.)


I started going back to London on a frequent basis when I was in my 20s. And I've wanted to move back there ever since. I honestly can't explain why, but -- let's be honest -- it's probably because every time I'm there, I'm on vacation. So somehow in my tiny pea-brain I think I will always be on vacation there. I'll never have to work, the Tube will remain a tourist attraction rather than a tedious way to commute to my non-existent job, I'll marry Colin Firth and have a million babies with cute accents and I will be their mom but also their governess, I think? Still not sure how that works over there. Anyway, it's sort of like when you're a kid and you want to live in the Santa's Village at Macy's 24/7/365 because it's candy canes on the regular. England, you are my Santa's Village.


And now I find myself in my 40s, burned out on my job and my hometown, and ready for an adventure. So you know what? I'm doing it. I am saying goodbye to ranch dressing and proper BBQ and Thanksgiving dinner and people who know what fried pickles are. There are non-food-based things I will miss as well, I'm sure. But if I think too long about how homesick I'll be for my family and friends, I'll chicken out. For now, I will be brave and try to wrap my mind around TV shows starting at weird times, cars on the wrong side of the street, saying chips when I mean fries, and striking out for a new and distant land: Manchester.