I have temporarily left a close-knit northern British Columbia community where back doors are routinely left unlocked, where I didn't receive a house key to my summer rental property for that very reason, where popping out for milk entails running into a minimum of three people you know, where driving is unfortunately still king, where mountains can be seen from downtown, where my social circle could be found - usually walking their dog, stroller or each other - in a 10 minute self-powered radius from my house, where BBQ and fire invites were shouted as you strolled past, where family dinner nights reveal that all our collective university degrees have given us is a fascination with penises (penisi? penes?), where world-class outdoor recreational opportunities were mere hours from doorstep to summit, where I have a man who knows that wool socks are sexier than lace, canoe journeys are foreplay, supports my wandering ways and creates homemade pizzas with unequaled gusto.
And for what? A reckless rush into the unknown with others who have similarly left friends, family and lovers strewn across the globe? A warm winter? The thrill of returning? Untold underwater adventures? Lazy afternoons in a hammock with a novel and crazy big beer? Some kind of reward for busting my ass this summer?
All of the above? Regardless, I'm flying into Singapore Thursday morning and have a small question mark (downsized from Big Fat Question Mark earlier) for after the 12 November. A pre-departure catch up and chat with Robyn in Calgary ought to point in some sort of a direction.
In the mean time, I have another packing bomb in the basement to diffuse.
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