key free

The keyring is empty. No car, no house, no office. All gone. Loss, or maybe freedom. I can almost see myself wrapping my belongings in a bandana tied to a stick, hopping on the next freight train, and riding the rails. Oh yes, the husband and children and cat. Also no harmonica. So, maybe not.

Meanwhile, we are staying with Y and D, their children and their adorable dog (not the the children aren't also adorable) in Brighton and having a wonderful time. It feels like a holiday. Why didn't we do this before? Who needs vacations abroad? It's so much fun just to share a house with friends. Though the friends are probably quite ready to have their house back. We told them their generous hospitality would ensure they don't miss us too much; by the time we depart tomorrow morning, they will quite welcome our absence.

I lie. We are going to miss each other tremendously. My friend A and I agree we won't say goodbye, just hello, and see you later.

Tonight we'll dine on fish and chips. Tomorrow, Toronto ho.

Ho? Ha! Boo hoo.

boxing clever

Our moving company's logo turns out to be a black cat in profile, so the children, cat lovers all, are happier about their belongings going into the boxes than they might have been otherwise. The movers are lovely men, which is a mercy, as otherwise I would be inclined to hate them. They've transformed our home into a warehouse. It's industrial, and processed, and alienating. (Alienating us, but preparing to welcome its new inhabitants. Damn them.) Everything is 'lasts': last dinner, last sleepover guest, last bath, last night. Tomorrow we leave. Funny, but now that our possessions are just a series of boxes, I don't really want them any more. I know that suggests a lack of object permanence in my psychological make-up but it's true: I don't care what's inside the cardboard.

heat and dust

...AKA, life in my loft (also, a great book and film by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala. I saw the film at the British Council library in Bandung, Indonesia, so many years ago it was another life). The attic has enough dust and heat to give India a run for its money. Where did it all come from? Where did all those boxes and bags and suitcases come from? They are ours, of course, but why did we keep them if only to let their contents deteriorate, victims of mice and mites and motes of dust, above our heads? I won't do that next time. Really. But I must say it was awfully nice to find those beige sandals.

love-in

Almost a hundred people struggled through roadworks and traffic to come to our 'leaving do' picnic at Stanmer Park, just outside of Brighton. It was a gorgeous sunny afternoon. Grown-ups lolled on the grass, chatting, eating, drinking, and laughing. Children gambolled - no, really, they gambolled-- climbing trees, hiding in the shrubbery, flying kites, playing football (and firing Nerf guns at each other. Well, what can you do). We meandered amongst knots of friends, greeting, hugging, kissing, crying. We knew everyone but not everyone knew everyone else, so we had the cosy sense of being at the centre of a web. It was like our wedding but without the rabbi and the ceremony. As I surveyed the untidy array of blankets and baskets spreading across the lawn, I fell in love: a visible, tangible representation of communities created over the last six years here in Sussex. One friend perspicaciously asked me whether my anxiety about moving stemmed from fear of the new, or sadness about leaving the old, and I realize that it's very much the latter. I am not unduly worried about the nuts and bolts of starting again(I may soon look back and sneer at my foolhardy self), but I wonder what we were thinking when we chose to head for pastures new and cold. If we'd had to fill in a balance sheet, assessing the value of our friends, our community, the network that cossets us here, against the wonders that are said to await us Over There, what would we have chosen to do? Maybe it will be, as I'm told again and again, a mere trifle to make friends and build networks in Toronto. At the moment, I don't care. At the moment, I don't want new friends or new community. I want the ones I've got.

the sisterhood

Why do we stay where we are or go somewhere new? By free will, for those of us who are lucky, or by force, for too many others. So really, I'm lucky. I'm moving to Toronto because it's a wonderful opportunity for my husband and most likely for my children. For myself, the draws are the altruistic ones of seeing my loved ones benefit (in the long term, that is; the kids would argue about any positives accruing to them at the moment) and greater proximity to my extended, natal family. I'll be closer to my parents and my sisters, but not all that close which is frustrating. On the other hand, you have to be careful what you wish for. Maybe not too near is best.

What goes around comes around

Tonight, what came around was a piece of my past, a charming piece: a little girl I used to look after in Berkeley when she was small and I was young is now a college graduate and globetrotter who came to us for dinner. Annalise is absolutely wonderful, articulate, bright, beautiful and out to save the world, one drop of water at a time. I think she just might succeed, too. It's funny to reminisce about the past with someone who was a mere infant during that past; you get to have all the memories your own way.

At the same dinner during which I was renewing my relationship with Annalise, I was continuing on the path of abrogating friendships with our other guests. Okay, maybe 'abrogating' is too harsh. Saying farewell to wonderful Peter and Eva and their little sons, though, I feel guilty. By moving far away, we are abandoning so much and so many. With too little consideration? Inadequate foresight? I hope they will come around to see us in Toronto.

Could do worse

Well, the trip to the US Embassy went smoothly, much to my surprise, and we finished at the consulate in under 2 hours. Our lack of a confirmation letter was met with a practically Gallic shrug (rather than a Yankee shove). In fact we did much better than the couple behind us in the security queue, whom we befriended: they had all their paperwork but forgot to bring their baby. Luckily for them home was not far away and baby was quickly retrievable via taxi. Ironically those parents were a lawyer and a banker. If two anthropologists can out-organise them, there is hope for academia in spite of these troubled economic times. To celebrate afterward (I mean celebrate our success at renewing younger son's passport, not at besting the global financial market) we breakfasted at a charming Mayfair cafe and visited Selfridge's food hall, where the children were given, rather bizarrely, their own live clams. In shells.

sleepless in Stanmore

I can't sleep. I'm too busy trying to kick myself. Why didn't I apply for a British passport when I still could? I never thought I'd covet one of those maroon booklets; never thought my 'indefinite leave to remain' stamp could expire. But it does. If I cease to reside in this green and pleasant land, then 'indefinite' becomes, in fact, quite definite: after two years, I'm no longer welcomed with open arms. I feel cheated and betrayed. Who would have thunk it? I learned to do the crossword puzzles and to laugh at the jokes; doesn't that give me any rights?

What on earth am I doing?

Here I am, happy and content in a lovely home by the sea on England's south coast. I was gainfully and pleasantly employed, despite the recession. Children under control- mainly. Husband same. But the easy life does not suit us, it seems. So off we go to pastures new-- and snow-covered. Toronto ho.

separation anxiety

I want to sell our electrical goods online, via Gumtree, because they're no good (well, not much good) in Canada. But there's some weird forcefield that is stopping me. I have listed the items, photographed them, made my peace with their departure, but somehow don't seem able to actually put them out there for strangers to buy. The hardest to sell will be the answerphone, which has an adorable message recorded by all three children several years ago. Everyone comments on that message. The children have changed but the message is the same.