I grew up in rural America. Mountains and trees, streams and fields. Rugged country.
I’ve lived in cities since college. Richmond. Raleigh. Baltimore.
At one time in my life, about a decade ago now, I thought that New York City would have been a fantastic place to be. Unfortunately, my friends who are New Yorkers have been pretty unanimous in saying that, no, I really wouldn’t fit New York. My head’s in the clouds too much or something.
I’d love living in DC. Recently, I’ve applied for some editorial jobs in DC. Those would be a blast.
I do have a dream, though. A long shot, never going to fucking happen, dream. A win-the-lottery-and-I-might-consider-it dream.
Edinburgh.
I can’t quite explicate the reasons why.
I’ve never been to Edinburgh, let alone to Scotland.
It might be the soccer. (I tell people now that I’m a Hibs fan, even though I don’t actually follow Scottish football.) It might be the culture. It might be the history. It might even be the beer.
I’d get myself a place. I’d sit in a pub all day and write. I’d go to soccer matches. I’d follow the Scottish music scene. I’d work on my Gaelic. I’d find myself a curvy Scottish redhead. I’d be an American expatriate.
And I’d be stupidly happy.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
It’s an absurd dream, I know. There’s no reason I can’t do the writing and the pubbing over here.
But it’s my dream. It’s my lottery dream.
I’d move to Edinburgh.