It’s once again time to leave the best island in the world to go back to a paradise of free healthcare, guaranteed vacation days, and warm, flat beer. It’s been amazing, and like always, I’m having a hard time knowing that I’m not sure when I’ll be back next. It mostly depends on where I find a job, I guess.
Someone please hire me?
It’s a bit exhausting sometimes, the constant back and forth. Maybe living abroad is a phase in my life. I’ve always thought I would end up back in NYC permanently. But the astronomical living costs, the comparative working conditions in the US, and the atmosphere of northern Europe has always pulled me back. Sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for something decisive to happen, something that will drag me back to the States, where I’ll live with my husband, 1.6 children, dog, cat, and white picket fence.
Except I won’t, because suburbia has no place in my future.
The point is, I don’t have a plan. And I’m really fine with that, at least most of the time. No twenty-three year-old has a plan, or at least not a good one. I’m still at the point in my life where I go straight from work to happy hour and then forget to eat dinner, so I’m really in no position to make any major decisions right now. But every time I leave home, I’m aware of what I’m leaving behind: my family, my friends, the cutest (and neediest) puppy in the world, the city I always thought I’d live in. And every time I come back home, I’m fully convinced that I’ll be back in Europe soon enough, it’s never the last time. So maybe I am waiting for something, something to pull me one way or the other, to force me to make a decision. I have no idea what that will be – a dream job, a relationship, the knowledge that that there’s no Zabar’s overseas. It could be anything.
I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
In the meantime, it’s time to go again. It’s been three and a half weeks of eating out too much, talking to some very eloquent thirteen-year-olds, some not-so-eloquent seventeen-year-olds, being touristy, puppy snuggles, UConn winning at everything except academics, running my first 13.1, the tail-end of the Polar Vortex, and the first two days of the second-most-unpleasant holiday on the Jewish calendar, at least in the culinary sense (because I suppose that eating cardboard is preferable to not eating at all). As always, it flew by far too quickly, and here I am, in a car headed towards the airport to go for a week of coffee, relaxing, and painting puppies in the romantic capital of the German-speaking world before heading back to The Bubble. Thanks to everyone who made it as amazing as it was, and particular thanks to some eighth graders for inspiring me and for reminding me of how much of a dumbass I was ten years ago.
Until next time, NYC.