Do you remember the first time you settled somewhere and became rooted, even if it was inadvertently?
I do. I’ve mentioned before how many places I’ve lived (20 different zip codes). Without a doubt a gypsy was born when I turned eighteen. A fly-by-her-seat gal that could easily fit everything owned into a coupe and jet off into the sunset on any given day. It was a freedom unlike any other with just the open road, music, and me. Pulling into unknown territory with a discovery high. It never ceased to amaze me at how quickly I met people since I considered myself somewhat of an introvert, but in retrospect it could have been my romance with who I wanted to be. Once the discovery was over, it was time to pull a Christopher Columbus (sans the raping and stealing from the Indians) and head into uncharted territory. This was my life for six years, and then I took a bit of the forbidden fruit – the big apple.
I’ve got to be honest, when I first landed on the concrete paradise I didn’t think I would spend a year here much less 9 years. Alas, here I am writing this post from postal code 10036 (Midtown). I certainly never expected for my feet to dig into the ground, firmly planted, and grow roots. So you trade in the concrete for a yard, which puts you in either Brooklyn, Long Island, or where I live, New Jersey. Had you told the gypsy she would be a homeowner in New Jersey, living with a woman, and chasing after three extremely spoiled animals, she would have told you to get off the acid.
I had always been the one leaving, departing for a new adventure. I had a reputation to live up to – my high school awarded me ‘Most Adventurous’. Under the stability of today, friends all around me bid their goodbye and head into my previously chartered territory; a new life. From where I stand, home, the fruit is bittersweet.