Like many people, I often ask myself whether I’m taking enough chances in life, or if I’m avoiding risk at all cost. There must be a middle ground between just going with the flow and the police having to identify your remains by examining dental records.
Although I had years to think about what would become my self-imposed exile, in the end I didn’t really put much planning into it. I’d rate my preparation for the move somewhere between a panic-stricken escape from a burning building in the dead of night, and the care most people put into making arrangements for a three-day weekend. Packing and preparation for an extended trip aren’t my strong points. Just what my strong points are have yet to be revealed to me, but I think I’m pretty good at dropping everything and moving across the country or across an ocean; I think I’d make a great fugitive.
Who among us hasn’t flirted with the idea of uprooting yourself from the security of a comfortable life in a beautiful American city; moving to a country whose language you speak haltingly and where you don’t know a single person; plopping down at random in a city you visited only briefly long, long ago; moving into an apartment with total strangers who look at you as something along the lines of an exotic pet; changing absolutely as much about yourself, from your name to the food you eat so as to fit in better—you pray—in your new surroundings? Me neither, at least that’s not the way I looked at this move before I left. I was either too naïve, foolhardy, or ill-informed to give the possible downside of moving much in the way of consideration. I suppose I had reached a time in my life when all of the risk of this move was completely outweighed by what I thought I would gain.
Of course, before leaving I had no way of knowing just what those gains would be, or even what sort of stuff I was going to learn, other than a new language. Even what language I would be required to speak was a matter up for a bit of discussion. One thing I can say now is if I were going to do this all over again from the start, this book would be one of the things I would put in my suitcase. Think of this book as more of a user’s manual for beginners than a travel guide. You may be able to learn a few things about life in the corner of the Mediterranean where I chose to live, a place where trial and error were my constant escorts. As most of you already know, those two make lousy travel companions and I wish I would’ve left them behind (preferably in a shallow grave). I’ll try to do that the next time I move 5,500 miles from home.
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