I am not a suburbanite. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not!

So why then am I here in Suburbia? Did I miss something? Some critical piece of direction? Have I lost my way, my edge? Have I deceived myself into thinking that somehow I’ve been “called” to this place to do something important and that’s why I won’t leave, or am I engaged in a quixotic battle against an imaginary giant of my own invention?

Those who’ve known me for any significant length of time have probably heard these questions asked more times than they can count. For those who may wish to analyze me, my pathology has been relatively consistent. They come upon me like epileptic seizures—some petit, some gran mal. Everything’s going along just fine then … wham … the flashing lights of longing for some remembered-but-now-distant culture sets it off and throws me to the floor in emotional convulsion.

Then comes my holiday in Europe. In preparing to go I must say that I sensed a certain unspoken apprehension coming from my friends—perhaps fearing that the quest would claim me and that I’d not return. It was as if they were whispering to one another, “Sure it’s good to take a break, but do you think Amsterdam and London are the best places for Dean to go? You know, considering his “condition”, it’s like a diabetic winning a golden ticket to the chocolate factory.”

Fear not, I survived. And although riding trams through Amsterdam to the open market with my Godsister, Shawna, or hopping on the Tube to rendezvous with my new friends Sam and Rachel in central London just to spend a few hours chatting in a Covent Garden pub was as natural a thing to me as breathing in and out, we are nevertheless glad to be back and not currently planning a move.

The big question for me of course is, “why not?” And the good news is that it’s one for which I may finally have a scrap of an answer.

More to come …