Ten years ago tonight, I boarded a plane at JFK and left the United States.

A couple of years ago I learned that when I left, my stepmother had bet the farm I’d be back within six months, because, quote, “she’s too wishy-washy to commit to an act that bold.”

Hmmm, well. Here I am. She has a point about the wishy-washy, though. Had it been any other context, I might have bet the same way. But for some reason moving has never scared me. A place is a place is a place, and I don’t think there’s anything particularly bold about choosing one place over another, unless of course the place you choose is riddled with people who shoot at each other in the streets. But if we’re talking about percentages of people shooting at each other, I suppose staying in San Antonio might have been the boldest decision of all.

Anyway, I guess I have some more to say about this, some reflective stuff about what being a traveler means, but I’m still thinking, so maybe tomorrow I’ll elaborate. I really think of March 5th as my anniversary, beacuse of course the transatlantic flight was an overnight one, and I landed in Manchester on the morning of the 5th, never having set foot in England before. I always thought of my anniversary as being the date when the new part of my life began, rather than the date when the old part ended. So I guess tomorrow is the big day, really.

Nonetheless, marking the close of a decade of adventure is worthwhile, I suppose, so… what’s appropriate to say? Thank god my stepmother was wrong, because if she hadn’t been I’d probably be living in rural Texas in a double-wide, for which my dad was planning on setting up financing because he wanted me to stop renting. He was the real estate broker for the company that sold the plots of land on which you could either build your own home, or purchase one of their luxury double-wide mobile homes. The land was in the middle of nowhere and the plots were mostly owned by silver-haired seniors. Basically it was a do-it-yourself retirement community for those who were still independent. I was 25 at the time. It makes me laugh to think about the possibility that that might have been my life, especially when I consider everything that’s happened to me over the past decade, both in Europe and here.

I guess I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed thinking about it all.

More on this tomorrow.