From city to country to sea

You could say I move in extremes. Less than two years ago I lived in a metropolitan city founded in 1622, the library grad school I attended was shouting distance of the Green Monster and from my bedroom one could hear the automated subway announcers reminding riders to grab their belongings. A few years before that I was overseas in a country whose alphabet I could barely piece together, much less than speak the language. The only Western foreigner living in my town -- or so it seemed. Red neon crosses lit up the skyline at night, most sixth grade students study until 2 am every day, and a 45 minute cab ride from the heart of downtown to my high-rise in the suburbs cost approximately 14 dollars.

I am about to close the chapter on yet another variant landscape: the Midwest countryside. Every morning, on my way to work, I drove by a farm with the sweet-looking cows, whose brown and grayish and cream-color hides look so soft and velvety that I am always tempted to stop and pet them. One cow was scratching an itch on her face with the green metal fence just this morning and if I had not been in a rush I may have stopped and helped her out. Past that farm is a house where I once spotted three chickens attempting to cross the road. Lumbering semis drive the same road as I do to work. I pass them and am occasionally treated to the sight of pink snouts poking out. And then there’s the farmer next-door to the college who takes perverse pleasure in applying manure on his field on the hottest of days.

My favorite part of my commute: there is this one spot of country road that is the slightest hint higher than the rest of the land, which treats me to a sight of golden morning fog, a pink sun and miles and miles of cornfields. I refuse to take a picture of it, knowing that it will never compete with my mental picture. 

I am ready to move. I keep that in mind with each packing-inspired panic attack. “Change is the only constant.” But with tomorrow as my last day in this town, there will be things I miss. The local bar where everyone knows either my name or my job. (“Hey Librarian!”) My little green car – bought new a year and a half ago and now with almost 25,000 miles on – in storage for the next six months. Learning how to drive in snow. The backyard creek, with squirrels and rabbits and screech owls. Autumn motorcycle rides. The Crooked House, host to two Thanksgivings, backyard bonfires, snow day hibernations, and even a bit of heartbreak.

One more day. Then off to San Diego, the Pacific, and then soon (oh so soon! Saturday!) miles and miles of blue ocean.