YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN

Thomas Wolfe knew what he was talking about. The pleasant things we remember from our childhood- how easy life used to be- are simply no longer there when we return home. As an adult you have to cope; you have to deal with all those nasty things your parents dealt with which made your life easy and pleasant. I’m not going to tell you how many years I’ve been away from NYC; that would be ‘aging’ me and I certainly don’t want to do that. However, I will say that I moved to the UK when aubergines (eggplants) and courgettes (zucchini) were the most exotic vegetables in the market (note I leave out the adjective “super”) and eating garlic was something only foreigners did. I had gone to do an M.A. course, made the mistake of getting married, and stayed on….until this past year. Like the convergence of the moon and the sun forming an eclipse, events converged in my life to force me to move back. Against my will. Against my better judgment.

One reason was that I became ill. For a time it looked as if I might need an operation. I lived alone, friends were working, and it appeared I had no one to look after me. Divorced now and with my daughter safely settled in NYC, she would have to take time off work in order to come over to care for me. This happily was not necessary but it was food for thought. And then the British Government struck. They came up with a fund-raising effort: why don’t we charge, they said, non-domiciled foreign residents, of which I was one, 35K GBP a year for the privilege of living here?

Listen, I’m no fool. I know when to get out. I came home again.

Admittedly, it isn’t as if I hadn’t been back in the USA all those years. I had had holidays (vacations) here; my daughter attended university here and I was privileged enough to own a ‘second home’ here. But owning a second home isn’t quite the same thing as owning a first home and being resident. I have come from a country with free medical care, much lower property tax, tiny maintenance charges on apts., an incredibly clean underground (subway) system with escalators, and a government which doesn’t seem to regulate and license everything and everyone. OK, so I’m prejudiced. I admit it. I like upholstered seats in the subway. I like reminders from doctors when my next bone-density scan is due. I like clean streets. But I’m coping.

So far….