I’m not running from anything: there’s no heart-wrenching break up I’m reeling from, no family drama I’m trying to escape, no lawless activity that would warrant an escape to a tropical island. In fact, I’ve run away from these problems before and found them just hanging out on my new, foreign doorstep once the thrill of moving to a foreign country had faded. But that’s for my book, not this blog.
I’m a big believer in signs. When Coldplay’s “The Scientist” played on my Pandora station while I randomly looked at a friend’s photos of his life in the US Virgin Islands, I gave the big G-o-d a proverbial nod. Someone, somewhere was trying to tell me something. And I’m pretty sure it was “Quit your job, sell your car and move to St Thomas” so I am.
I’m writing this from a job I will soon quit, a job that I like (mostly because my co-workers are just as inappropriate as I am and I can get away with almost anything in my own office) A job that a lot of people might give their left foot for (I write: I write emails, I write status updates, I write blogs, I write brochures on why our DJs would make your next corporate event a real party) but I’ve had this awesome voice inside my head quietly telling me each time I sat down at my double monitored desk “This isn’t it” Michael Jackson got it wrong. Even after living in Italy for a year and a half, I’m not done, there’s lingering need-for-adventure still coursing through my veins. An urging for the unknown, the uncertain.