What happens when a native New Yorker uproots her life and moves to Norfolk?
A guttural scream exploded from somewhere deep inside me as I stepped out of the car in New York City on my first visit back there since moving to the UK a year ago. I’d nearly planted my foot on two rats embroiled in a grudge-match over the right to eat the chunks out of a pile of vomit. I then spent the next hour pressed against the front of a building, because our Airbnb host had neglected to leave us the key. So we dodged Saturday late-night drunks until he finally arrived at 1am. Within 30 seconds, he and I were fighting.
Any New Yorker will tell you to stay away during the dog days of summer, because the garbage-strewn streets will have reached maximum, eye-watering pungency. But my son’s UK school schedule dictated the timing. So this past August, I found myself touching down at JFK, terrified I’d feel remorseful about having left and pleasantly surprised to feel only a gentle tingling of familiarity as the glittering skyline came into view.
