I’ve been feeling a bit nomadic. Not so much nomadic in the sense that I don’t have a home. Or nomadic in the sense that I’m traveling across deserts on a camel, dragging a yurt behind me. Mostly nomadic in the sense that I’m in the U.S. and then I’m in Canada and then I’m in the U.S. and then I’m in Canada.
Basically, I’ve been traveling all over God’s green and not-so-green creation, doing some work, converting kilometers to miles, working on residency forms, enjoying married life, figuring out how many liters are in a gallon, doing some more work, juggling multiple cell phones, wondering who decided that both Celsius AND Fahrenheit readings had to exist, remembering when to include “u”s in my word spellings, and, well, driving.
One day, I’m enjoying my husband’s company. The next day, I’m driving, checking my e-mail at a Panera Bread and sleeping over at the friend’s house. The day after that, I’m checking e-mail at a random coffee shop, working, and then pulling into my parent’s driveway. A few days after that, I’m refueling, driving, again, and finally giving my husband a smooch.
In-between, I’m getting to know a lot of border agents and gas station attendants on a first-name basis. And learning how to pack more efficiently. I’m also learning how to be very, very patient, and how to suffocate road rage, but that’s a whole ’nother post.
On a very positive note, my residency paperwork is filed. I managed to sum up my relationship with my husband in an extremely succinct 150-page document. Now THAT is cause for celebration! And, I would celebrate, but there’s no time. I have to go pack. Again.