I only realized it last night, but it was 8 years ago yesterday that I arrived in the UK. I was living with Cindy Bellefeuille in Boston, and I had to pack up all my stuff (or as much of it as I could - I hope she would tell me if she's still got junk of mine in some storage warehouse somewhere that she's paying rent on...Cindy?) within the space of about 12 hours (I worked until 6:00 pm on Friday, which was the day before my flight at 9:00 am on Saturday). I didn't really have enough stuff to make getting a true moving agency worth it, so instead I loaded up every suitcase I owned, and a few that I'd acquired that week, and paid American Airlines something like $250 in excess baggage fees. Probably the cheapest international move my company had ever seen. I think I stayed up pretty much most of the night trying to get packed, and one of the last things I did was put a huge box of unwanted clothes on the sidewalk hoping that someone might find something they liked. I don't hold out much hope that anyone did, but anyway...I think I also put an old battered armchair out on the street too (I'd inherited this from Lela and LT, so I also hope it found a good home as I vaguely remember its being very sentimental to LT).
After the day flight to Heathrow, I arrived hoping to pick up keys to the company apartment where I was to be staying for 3 months while I "found my feet". Instead I arrived at my office, a place I'd never been before, to find that there were no keys to be found. I happened to have the name and number of a hotel near the office (although this was purely luck, I didn't have a contingency plan) and fortunately they had a room, where I stayed for 2 nights, wondering what the hell I was doing and wondering if Monday would be too early to tell them I wanted to move back! Eight years later here I am. I wouldn't have thought that would be the case in a million years...but life works in mysterious ways.