When I was a student in Philadelphia, I was always impressed with the fact that I wasn't home, that I was in a major city seeing new things, being out in the world. I think it comes from growing up in a small town and coming from a family of farmers, people who never strayed far from home. No one in my family went to college really; no one left home to move to a new city. It wasn't as if it was discouraged--it was more that such a thing was not fathomed as a possibility. Such things were done by those who had fancy jobs, money and privilege.

While at college I felt so lucky to be there, and I didn't believe that it would last, that it could last. It was all a wonderful vacation that would (had to) end with me returning to my small town. I can remember distinct occasions when I promised myself to remember a moment for more mundane times certain in the future. I can remember walking the streets of Philadelphia during rainy spring nights, soaking up the feeling that a vibrant city gives off--buses driving by, headlights moving silently through small back streets, the orangish tint of the street lights, people hurrying to their destinations. I'd go by myself into Center City, to the Academy of Music, to hear the Philadelphia Orchestra or to hear a recital by a renowned musican, to the opera. Student ticket prices, and my love of great music. I loved the ride home on the bus after the concert. On weekends I'd often walk through the city, sometimes walk to the Philadelphia Art Museum and enjoy the privilege I felt for being able to see great works of art, to be in the museum itself. I loved walking among small streets filled with brownstone apartments and residential neighborhoods, small shops, book stores, and bakeries. I loved riding the subway with confidence, as if I belongs in that city, a city dweller.

I was in awe of the university and its inhabitants. It felt like an impressive place, and I often thought I didn't belong there, that I was lucky to be in such a world-class university. It was not Grove City College. The buildings and campus impressed me. The professors intimidated me uniformly by their very position, regardless of their individual personalities. The immense library inspired me every time I entered--corridors that extended for what seemed like miles, books in every language and on any topic, more than one thought even existed. I had access to all of this. Of course the students. They were impressive. They were better than me. Somehow they all knew the rules and the ways that I didn't--how could a boy from Grove City. They were smart AND clever, sociable and talented, all the things I believed that I was not.

I enjoyed studying atop the huge lounge area, windows on all sides, on the top of the student housing highrise I lived in. At night you could see the entire city, the streets demarcated with the orange street lights and the city grid alive with cars heading places. There was no doubt I was in foreign territory, and I loved it.

I did return to my small hometown. But I also left again--to Indiana, to Kentucky, to Pittsburgh, and to Rochester. Each of these moves carried with it the same feeling of awe, in varying degrees, and for different reasons. But underlying them was the sense that I was out in the world, and not contained within my hometown. I was out seeing things, doing, and exeriencing, and it was exciting.

I've lost this feeling, I think because I've been in the same place so long. Rochester has become my hometown, my new Grove City. It's safe, it's familiar, it feels confining. I'm no longer out in the world. And I miss that. It's strange how much I need familiar things, routine. Yet I also need the feeling that I'm out there. Without that it's just .... routine, it's just Grove City.