When my parents called me about a year ago, I knew it had to be a big deal: first of all, I almost always am the one who rings them, as their tolerance for not speaking to me is obviously ever so slightly longer than mine for not speaking to them. Second, they were both on the speakerphone, clear evidence of an impending, serious revelation.
“I’m going to be a professor,” said my dad, “at Johns Hopkins.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s nice. Aren’t you retired? Can you do that in upstate New York?”
“No,” said my dad. “I’d be moving to Baltimore.”
Silence. OH MY ACTUAL GOD, I thought, my parents are getting divorced and this is how they tell me?
Fortunately my mother has always been a keen mind-reader.
“I’m going too!” she yelped, soothingly.
And thus it was okay. But having recovered faith in the solidity of the parental marriage, I immediately panicked at the prospect of my parents selling my childhood home. My childhood home! With my childhood stuff! My childhood bedroom, nearly intact from the day that I left for university, where the corsages from various prom dates (dried) still adorned the wall, stuck up with double-sided tape. Ruined!
I came to realise, of course, that it’s not fair to expect your parents to maintain a shrine to your youth simply so that you can pop over from England for an annual visit. Thus: I don’t begrudge them their move to Baltimore, a city which they seem to adore, and they very kindly took along lots of my stuff (although I hope they left the corsages behind) and even transported the ancient family dog.
So I’m pretty excited for my first trip there next week: I have high hopes for Baltimore. Apparently it’s very hip. I’m scared of the crab cakes, however.
