I'd Be a Fine Upstanding Immigrant

written Wednesday 23 April 2008

I’ll move to Rockferry, tomorrow,
And I’ll build my house baby, with sorrow,
I’ll leave my shadow, To fall behind,
And I won’t write to you, ’cause I’m not that kind.
['Rockferry,' Duffy - check it out, the whole album is great]

For almost eight months total I’ve been a vagabond with a (not so) secret storage unit; for the last eight weeks I’ve traveled the friendly skies. For six weeks I’ve couch surfed across waves of futons, loveseats, sticky leather sofas, extra-long hostel-length twin mattresses, next to friends, opposite neighbors, in the living room, and for only two weeks my own wing of the parental castle. When I touch down at the end of this flight, that’s it. It stops. At least for now, but for good, until next time.

I’ve been needing a break for a while, I admit. Positive attitude tells me that going home is a good thing, and my friends tell me I’m overdramatic about it all. Or at least, the unspoken refusal to ‘let’s meet up for a drink before you go’ has made itself clear. But it has been a big deal, to me. In fact, I kind of want my eight weeks back.

So here’s the nutshell, cause I suppose I haven’t laid it all out. At the end of my six-month stint in London through the BUNAC programme, I flew from London to Boston – a required departure to the United States while (or ‘whilst,’ for the Londoners) my work permit and visa applications were evaluated, processed and, I was assured, approved. The original plan was to expedite the paper work and resume my job in London in two, okay, maybe three, weeks. Tops. On forced holiday, I made the best of it and flew, and partially drove: Boston-Minneapolis-Appleton-Chicago-Austin-Boston. Two more weeks, I’m told, so: Boston-Chicago-Austin-Boston, again. Two weeks in Boston, waiting, and then, finally, the work permit application is rejected on the basis that the opportunity for “resident workers” (aka non-immigrants, English, or British, or, blasted, EU European) to compete for my job was insufficient. The official moment came where I had to ‘pack my things, and go home.’

But, you see, ‘things’ and ‘home’ are complicated. My things were spread across Boston, London and at that pesky permanent home address in Texas, and the time had come to collect, consolidate and reassess. So, naturally, I suppose it seemed, I flew Boston-London-Boston to close the storage unit, the bank account, work and personal affairs and to bid farewell to home, ‘the place.’ Then, in Boston, jet-lagged and unadjusted, I cleared out and said the ‘don’t know when I’ll return’ goodbyes with most but not all of the people I needed to see. I’ve been up to my ears in shipping boxes, overweight and excess suitcases, moving expenses and, most of all, unacknowledged stress. “It must be a relief now, you’re close enough.” Close, yes, but not enough. It’ll be a relief when everything is unloaded, both literally and figuratively. Unpacked, thrown out or put away, reorganized. Collected, in just one place. The one with my bed, my wifi-enabled laptop, the external hard drive bulging with music, Cindy the wonder cat, my occasionless shoe collection, the toiletries regime, my most favorite scripts and my stereo speakers. My lifestyle, my ‘home,’ around me. Sounds like a nice break.

So now it’s the job search. It’s this flight, and the connection I’m inevitably going to miss because flight times are never kept to anymore. It’s one more load to move, a few more boxes to receive, a wire transfer of international funds, and, I’m hoping, beautiful, exclusively sunny weather. The job search can take me anywhere; my new goal is to become portable again. No baggage, no weight, no stress. Completely movable; seeking job, will travel.