When I left Oxford last spring, I didn't expect to be back in England anytime soon. I left on a bad note, after a bad break up. I finished all my work, ducked out of term two weeks early, and headed home to Chicago to recover and to forget.
"It was a learning experience," I told myself. In the end, I was glad I'd done it. Still, I wouldn't go back--not for a while, if ever. Oxford was nice. London was great. But in the end, neither city could hold a candle to New York. And more than that, I had no desire to revisit the site of the only real heartbreak I'd ever experienced.
That's why I'm a little surprised to find myself sitting here in front of Gate 56 at Newark Liberty Airport at 8pm in the middle of the worst snow--or should I call it "wintery mix"--storm of the year. I'm hopping across the pond for the weekend to see my new boe. It is
possible, likely even, that this wild adventure may end in heartbreak. I may be destroyed once again, but the British Isles are beckoning, and I can't find it in myself to back away.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment