Oh, to Be in England?

Twenty years ago, I refused to wear Reeboks because their logo incorporated the Union Jack.  I figured that wearing Nikes was a small price to pay for the systematic slaughter and enslavement of my people, just as refusing to fly British Airways, to like the Beatles, and to watch the original "Dr. Who" was nothing more than a minor inconvenience compared to what the English did to Michael Collins and Bobby Sands and all those people Bono used to sing about.  But then something happened.  Rather than go off and join the revolution, I found out some things.  For starters, Reeboks are a much better shoe than Nikes.  Flying on British Airways turned out to be a delight.  The Beatles are pretty good, especially from "Revolver" on.  The original Dr. Who sucks, but so does Bono.  And it turns out I'm not even descended from Irish Catholics, which means "my people" are boring old Scots who pinched some pennies on their way to America and stopped off in Ireland because the lodging was cheap.  Sure, all of my kids have Gaelic names and I still have a soft spot in my heart for Sinn Fein, but at the same time, I really, really like "Downton Abbey."  So what if 16-year-old Me would punch Present Me in the face?  16-year-old Me was pretty weak anyway.

Kind of like the River Walk in San Antonio, without the mariachis.

I can't really pinpoint where or when everything changed, but the transformation was complete in the fall of 1999.  Emily and I spent a day wandering around Cambridge, exploring the colleges and cathedrals and walking along the quays.  We stopped for a break in a park called The Jesus Green and we watched schoolchildren in their uniforms and "wellies" play soccer.  We talked about how nice it would be for little Liam -- then just a few months from being born -- to grow up in a place so perfect that even the parks are named after Jesus.  It all seemed like a pipe dream, kind of like how just two years later we talked about quitting our jobs and never using our return tickets from Hawaii.

The Jesus Green, Cambridge, England.

But here we are, almost 13 years later, with the opportunity to go and live in England.  Cambridge, no less.  Despite my affinity for meat pies and my absolute obsession with the English Premiership -- and despite the rare chance to actually make a vacation daydream come true -- moving back overseas is a harder decision than I would have thought.  Judging from the comments of family and friends, moving to England is exotic -- which I suppose it is, as much as living in a place where it rains 300 days a year can be exotic, because they do drive on the other side of the road and have charming accents.  But this would be at least the 23rd move of my life (I've started to lose track), many of which have been long-distance.  Moving to England would be the fourth foreign country in which I would have lived.  For me, "exotic" is living in one place, in one house, with the attic slowly filling up with sentimental relics as the pencil marks recording the kids' heights slowly climb up the wall.  "Exotic" is the kids going to the same high school all four years and going off to college and being able to tell their friends that they're from somewhere.  "Exotic" is cultivating a garden long enough to enjoy the vegetables; it is planting a tree and some day building a fort in it.  "Exotic" is living somewhere long enough to become a native.

Which is why, when we were approached with the opportunity to live in England for three years, it was a difficult decision.  Would moving halfway across the world be good for our children?  What would we do with our house -- the first house we have ever owned, the house in which we have invested money, countless hours, and even some drops of blood and sweat?  Would we ever come back here -- the first place we have ever felt truly at home? 

In the end, though, there really was only one answer.  It was an answer that stretched back to watching schoolchildren kicking a football in The Jesus Green as our first child kicked inside Emily's womb.

My new commute. OK, probably not ...