Returning Home

Every time I go back to Kingston I get that odd feeling that I could live here, again. As in settling into a modestly-priced bungalow, built in the early 80's with re-modeled one and a half baths and a sunken living room, saying good-bye to public tranportation and leasing to own a family-orientated mini-van with dependable tires and scotch-guarded seats so I can drive the 10 minute commute to work, looking forward to the Letters to the Editor section of the local paper every Saturday, clucking my tongue over the follies of the city council as they turn down another attractive business proposal that would bring jobs to the city, looking down the road to nothhing further than a slow ease into middle-age and a middling waistline. 10 years ago such thought sent me screaming from the country but now there is a certain appeal to it, not unlike seeing a girl you used to like in high school years later and remembering the crush you had on her.

The idea attracts me even more, now that I've been around the world a bit and have done and seen things that would make me a figure of curiosity around the upper-middle class neighbourhood with it's manicured lawns and two cars in the garage. Having a wife from another country would add to my mystique, and it's not hard to see myself supporting the local theatre groups by shelling out for over-priced tickets to under-produced productions, attending author signings at the remaining independent book store, driving my daughter to and from figure skating lessons. I would be a big fish in a medium-sized pond, not an bad way to live, really.

So what's stopping me?