This is my station

Written 24 April, 2012 whilst waiting for approval of a visa extension.

Over the past decade, I drifted from place to place, changing jobs and residence frequently without so much a purpose as a list of departures. In retrospect, it makes for an interesting narrative: years of seemingly irrational decisions tucked neatly under the guise of personal growth.

Fitting then, that my first serious attempt to keep things as they are is left to someone else to decide.

In limbo

In one week, the visa that grants me the right to live and work in the United Kingdom will expire. I applied for an extension two months ago, delayed a decision following unprecedented backlogs. Suffice to say, the coalition government’s heavy-handed measures to diminish immigration, coupled with the Border Agency’s fundamental inability to secure the border and manage immigration policy has left the system in complete disarray.

Fortunately, an expiring visa remains valid indefinitely until a decision is made. That comfort aside, the decision to approve or reject the application rests entirely with the Border Agency. The application process is a black box. On the outcome of rejection, I would be forced to leave the country immediately. With this knowledge, every decision I make is laden with meaning. Day by day, I plan to stay — and plan to leave.

I commit to a wonderful new job, new friends and a world of continued opportunity in London; I purchase tickets for conferences, festivals, gigs and holidays.

I review contractual obligations, delay new commitments, prepare a backlog of contacts and necessary tasks. I estimate asset losses, consolidate personal belongings for moving, research methods of shipping and money transfer.

It is a terrible state to be in, and a difficult one for others to empathize with.

In this, I am forced to consider a backup plan. And the answer is always the same.

Have _, will travel

This time, North America. To see a country I’ve barely known.

Nice idea. It begs the question: why is the fallback always travel?

At times, travel is a limited love affair with the romance of the unknown. At others, an endless ramble in search of purpose. For some, of course, it is simply running away.

In 2009, four months after I moved to London, the bottom fell out. As freelance work (and my bank account) dried up and full-time work proved elusive, I lost the room I was renting. I had already booked a flight to New York for end-of-year holidays, and decided the best course of action would be to use my remaining funds to travel until I was due to fly back in December. Things got better, the idea abandoned.

Travel seems like the lost dream of middle age, usually afforded to the very young and the retired. A means of living untethered, prior to or following stability. To some, it is a course for rebellion against the status quo, against marriage and parenthood. In the United States, world travel is often met with skepticism and condescension, even derision. A shame, as for others it offers so much unconsidered possibility.

I visited London as a tourist on the tail end of a holiday, an afterthought. I left one week later, the notion of moving to the city firmly planted in my mind.

If things do come apart this time, it would be easy to move back to New York. Perhaps a bit of travel first can offer a bit of unexpected insight.