I lived in Barcelona for a year between 2004-2005. Five years after leaving, and to escape America after a bad breakup, I went back to Spain to visit; I stayed with my friend Josep, sleeping on his couch. Before I left, though, my dad emailed me about this new site called AirBNB, where people rented out rooms in their homes to strangers. He, an intrepid traveller who disdains well-trod paths, was eager to try it; I was distinctly less interested. But when I returned, my roommate, Paul, told me his girlfriend was pregnant and they were moving in together; faced with the prospect of not having his rent in cash as income, and reluctant to commit to a new roommate that may not be as awesome as Paul, I decided to give AirBNB a try.

So I did. And for four years I, like Gatsby, became the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse. It paid my mortgage and a chunk of my student loans; I became a Super Host; and I met both new and old friends who I am still in touch with today. I learned how to clean in five minutes so that the house looked clean, and clean in 30 minutes so that it was clean; I learned to mix drinks, host, welcome, and also sniff out scam artists and criminals who were trying to use my house for illicit activities.

One day, a woman reserved it at the last minute; she said she was coming into town to visit family, but didn’t want to stay with them. It turned out she was a Thai national who was studying at the Culinary Institute of America; her relatives ran a restaurant in Cleveland Heights, and she was visiting them out of a sense of obligation.

The second or third day of her stay, when I came home from work, she had prepared a Thai meal on my tiny, old electric stove. She had gone into town and bought all of the ingredients at an Asian grocer; she said she knew I loved food, so she went through each jar and bottle and spice bag, explaining what they were and why they were important. The two things I remember now are the palm sugar that she scraped out of a tub with an ice cream scoop, melting it in a pan, and the Happy Boy Mushroom Flavored Soy Sauce, which she said was the most popular and, in her opinion, the best, soy sauce in Thailand; the mushroom added a delicate umami flavor that was prized for all meals.

Maybe it was that she was Thai; maybe it was that she was a CIA student. Whatever the reason, I haven’t bought a different type of soy sauce since 2013.

So, kids, that’s why I splash Happy Boy Mushroom Flavored Soy Sauce on your food at least twice a day, and why it will be a flavor in most of your meals for the next fourteen to seventeen years. A bad breakup.

Before I moved to the UK for good in December, 2015, I came over in November. It was a quick trip, and part of the reason was that I knew I would be able to bring over a big load of stuff and leave it with Alice, then bring the bags back to America, load them up again, and then make my final one-way trip. The Friday before Thanksgiving, I parked my car in downtown Cleveland, got on the tram to the airport from Tower City, and walked up to the United ticket counter.

I hadn’t planned it ahead of time, but I was carrying an odd assortment of bags – a suitcase, a messenger bag, a big green US Army duffel bag, and a long, slender grey bag with some Karate weapons and an antique cane. I was hoping to check the latter two; I knew I might need to pay, though, as my limit was one bag under 45 pounds. I was also wearing as much as I could on my body; I had two thick sweaters, my heavy Amish winter coat, jeans, LL Bean duck boots, and one of my straw Amish hats.

There were three United workers at the counter, and no passengers. The airport seemed dead. I put my bags down, and there was a loud clanking sound; I had packed five cast iron pans in the duffel bag, and they had shifted and banged against the faux-stone floor. When I straightened up again, I saw three faces behind the counter, and recognized their expressions from a few years before, when I had pretended to be on Rumspringa in Chicago with Bianca.

They actually thought I was Amish.

I kept as straight an expression as I could when I gave them my passport and told them I was going to London. All three of them leaned in.

“London, Heathrow,” the woman said.

And, keeping a face as straight as humanly possible under the circumstances, I said something I never thought I would say in any seriousness.

“Ah-yup.”

“You’re checking three bags?”

Pause. “Ah, ah’d like to check jes the two,” I said.

They looked.

“I think the suitcase should be fine in an overhead compartment,” the man said, more to his colleagues than me.

“What’s in the long one?” a woman asked.

She meant the karate weapons. They were made of Brazilian Ipe wood, and were so dense that they sank in water, so strong that the wood had to be cut with special diamond saws that frequently burned out and splintered. I had been hoping that I could get them for free as sporting goods. “Raht, ah needed to tell y’all about that. There is some fake wooden swords, a staff, and an antique cane,” I said.

“A walking cane?”

“Ah-yup.”

The man pointed to the screen. “That’s mobility equipment,” he said. He showed his colleague how to enter the code, and they printed a tag for it and put it on the conveyor belt.

“Now this one is heavy,” they said, about the duffel bag being weighed. My mind screamed “no shit!” but I kept my body still, trying to communicate that I was used to hard physical labor and weight meant nothing to me; I was made for struggle. “Is there anything you can take out and bring with you on the plane? They won’t check the weight of your carry-on.”

I suppose the Amish would have said they were English-splaining to me.

So I got to my knees on the floor of Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, slowly took the four giant cast iron pans out of my duffel bag, carressed each one, and transferred them to my carry-on suitcase while they watched. I did not smile.

To their credit, they didn’t strike me as smug or superior so much as concerned and protective; they seemed to really care about me, and wanted me to save my hard-earned dollars on this strange international trip I was taking – perhaps the first flight of my life, although they held my passport in their hands and could have looked through the pages to see that my tan was not from the cornfields but from Mauritius. They checked the new weight of the duffel bag, printed a tag, gave me the stubs and my boarding pass, and wished me a happy journey.

“Ah do truly appreciate y’alls help,” I said slowly, and lifted my hat.

“Y’all don’t mention it,” the woman said, in the sort of accent an urban-born cosmopolitan would use to ingratiate herself with someone from the deep country, and they wished me a pleasant journey.

And that’s how I got about 40 pounds of cast iron pans, my jo staff and bokken and cane, and my Amish hat to the UK, intact and for free.

In September, I turned 44. It was the single best birthday I have ever had. The main reason was that, after all of these years, I finally accepted that the people wishing me happy birthday were not doing it out of formality; they were genuinely sending me love, and actually cared about me. I decided that from now on, I am taking all family birthdays off, so I got up in the morning, went to the gym, ate breakfast, took Daniel to his nursery, and then walked around the city for a few hours to think about the year just past and the year to come. The afternoon was full of family things, and it was wonderful.

At 44, I can feel myself changing, quickly. Physically, the changes in my body are worrying. I haven’t been drinking alcohol for nine months now, and I am considering cutting out caffeine – wherease before, I could have a late espresso after a night of drinking with no discernable effect, now, my body just can’t seem to handle more than a cup a day, always consumed before 8 a.m. I am also off of processed sugar and wheat, for the most part; my sugar crash is so bad that I have to nap if I eat a cookie. Breakfast is now a bowl of vegetable soup and then some eggs with soy sauce and homemade no-sugar hot sauce. Most embarrassingly, I find that if I drink water after about 7 p.m., I get up two or three times in the night to pee – dehydrating myself after 7 and then rehydrating in the morning means I have a better night’s sleep.

Oh, the problem recognition and experiments that have gone into these changes.

And exercise! I am considering taking two rest days a week instead of just Sunday, as…well, I just can’t train every day, like I used to. My body is tired, tired and sore in that way I always loved when I was younger, but now I find to be reminiscent of a world-weary burden. I groan sometimes when I get up, or crouch down, or move in any sort of funny or completely normal way. Typing these words puts annoying pressure on my fingertips and the heels of my hands, delicate from Jiu-Jitsu yesterday. And Jiu-Jitsu injuries don’t come as a surprise anymore; they feel more expected than odd. I like training with older people now, because they know their own limits, and we don’t push each other too hard.

I would like to start talking to people who are about five years older than I am, just to see what they remember about my age at any point. What should I expect? Anticipate? Do differently to prepare? Maybe there are books on this stuff.

Daniel started Judo lessons.

The first class, I started crying. It was partly that he was going to learn to defend himself; it was also that he was taking a step to becoming more confident in himself and in the world, and joining a community of other kids who were doing the same. And it was partly that, looking at the other parents, I saw the same fears and hopes in their eyes – so many are immigrants, too, probably worried like me that their kids will be bullied for having a funny name or saying words without a Scottish brogue, hopeful that, if cornered, they will put any bully on their back with the wind knocked out of them, but also looking to instil discipline, confidence, ability. One girl had lost her hair from chemo, it seemed; another boy had giant hearing aids in his ears. I really hoped that Daniel would end up friends with them both.

I know I am not supposed to compare him to the other kids in the class, but…he is good. He follows directions, moves with fluidity, plays games well, is aware of his space and other people, and is just physically capable in ways that stand out in the classes. One of my friends from Jiu-Jitsu, who is trying to get his daughter to start Judo, commented on it, and on his comfort in groups – other kids need their parents to join in in order to make it through the 35-minute class, whereas Daniel just runs off, only occasionally looking at me sobbing on the sidelines to wave and smile and keep my spirits up.

And then Alice and I were talking in the kitchen, and didn’t know where the boys were. I walked around the corner, and Daniel’s door was mostly closed. I pushed it open, and Daniel was sitting cross-legged on the floor, with Nick sitting on his lap, Daniel’s arm around Nick’s shoulder to help keep him up, and Daniel was reading a book to him.

Right now, he and Alice are in the kitchen, and he is shouting, “NO. I AM NOT DOING IT. NO. NO. NO.” But that’s not the kind of thing I am going to remember about his younger years.

Nick loves Daniel. At night, I cuddle with Daniel and we watch a few videos of how things work, or about strange animals, or about a Colorado fire academy, or twenty minutes from Singin’ in the Rain; Nick will come in to say good night, and cuddle to watch a few minutes with us, Daniel on my left and Nick on my right. Then, when it is time for him to leave, Nick leans across my chest and kisses Daniel. Then, I will ask him for a kiss, and Nick will lean across my chest and kiss Daniel again. Sometimes, playing with them in the house, Nick will just run up to Daniel and hug him, even when Daniel screams that he doesn’t want hugs, he wants to ride on his fire engine, or jump off of the sofa, or whatever he is doing that would be interfered with by a warm embrace.

And he is learning words – he will hold a cup up to say “chees,” and will say “tank-oo” when either giving or receiving something from someone else. When his nose runs, he will say “tissoo.” He says something like “oof” when he sees a dog, and knows that cows moo, and sheep go baa. And he knows how to respond to questions – he will either say “yeah” or shake his head, and, generally, he knows what we are asking and responds with an accurate response.

I was sending a message to an old friend, and was looking through my phone for a photo of Nick and Daniel to add to it. But I couldn’t decide.

And, in Autumn, my workmate Jo reminded me of this article, and why I don’t watch American football.

My dad retired early – like, maybe at about 60? The year he retired, he was still invited to the office retirement party, with all of the other doctors, at one of their fancy houses. He was sitting next to one of the wives, who looked at him and said, “I know you from somewhere.” My dad said that maybe it was because he worked with her husband, but she insisted that wasn’t it. The library? Nope. Unitarian Universalist church? No. Buddhist meditation groups? Not that, either. Well, what did she do? She didn’t do much where they would have crossed paths…but she volunteered once a week at the thrift store next to Vons on Second Street.

My dad almost jumped. He loved that thrift store! In fact, he bought all of the clothes he was wearing at the Christmas party from that shop – he paid maybe $3 total for them.

My mother was completely embarrassed, but my dad was proud. He was retired because of his thrift and investments; the other doctors would be working until they were 80 to afford all of their expensive, unnecessary crap.

That is my favorite story about my dad.

And I had two visitors from my distant past in the last month.

First, Annie, from law school, came to visit. She was always the person I thought of as my most interesting classmate, and probably the most likely to succeed in life. The last time I saw her was at her wedding twelve years ago – and since then, how much! How much! She and her husband were on an anniversary trip; she said she had left her kids tied to a tree. Daniel occasionally finds something hilarious, and that image sent him over the edge; for days, he talked about being tied to a tree. It is a wonder he hasn’t been taken from us.

But Annie, who is still a lawyer, brought gossip from our alumni network – about the friends who had died, who had joined extreme religious groups, who had opened funeral parlors, who had found some modicum of professional and/or financial success. We bonded again over impressions of classmates and our private prejudices for or against people, and I was reminded that for some people, time and distance is not a barrier to an intensely wonderful friendship.

And then, two weeks later, I got a Facebook message from Miss O’Malley: she was in Scotland, and would be in Edinburgh the next day, and didn’t know where I lived but hoped we might see each other. It was a bit overwhelming; she was my eleventh-grade English teacher, and I had probably last talked to her in 1997. And she was coming to visit.

So she and her boyfriend showed up on a rainy evening when we were making pizzas. A while ago, I became obsessed with the idea that teachers were normal people, and to put this theory to the test was wonderful. She was, granted, always the coolest teacher, and was just barely older than us, close enough in age that Jason Seiler apparently asked her out and got rejected and nobody thought any less of him for it. But to have her show up and to be able to offer my high-school English teacher a drink, and to have her accept it…

And she was cool! She IS cool!!! We caught up, and gossiped, and looked over my senior year yearbook. She told me that I gave her A Prayer for Owen Meaney, which became one of her favorite books, and that she had joined Facebook after hearing me on NPR for Cash Mobs, and wanted to contact me, and has been on ever since. (Sorry for drawing you into social media, Miss O’Malley.)

And both of these visits made me decide that from now on, if I like someone, I am going to make sure that they know it. Life is too short to hold back the love.

And, in September, my membership in the Royal Scots Club was up for renewal. I have been a member more or less for the last six years, and I am increasingly involved in it; after talking with Alice, I decided to become a life member. It costs ten times the normal annual dues, so in order to become a life member, I have to assume that I will be alive for more than ten years, I will be living in Edinburgh for more than ten years, the club will be around for more than ten years, and that I will want to be a member for more than ten years. None of these things are given, and all require a leap of faith. I think we decided to get married with less deliberation, less fear of commitment. It is strange in this day and age, and with my life history of moving around, to think that this is my home now, this will be my home now. What is it to commit to a place? Marriage is different – people can move together. But Edinburgh is my community now, this is my home, and Life Membership is saying that I don’t want to move away.

And I don’t – I love it here, I have so much here. It is virtually impossible for me to walk outside without seeing someone that I know. Right now, I am standing at my living room window, Nick asleep in the sling on my chest, and I can look out and see the owner of the café across the street who always gives Alice free tea when we go in, and, on the sidewalk twenty yards away, my friend Sorin, walking up the street, probably going to get a bacon roll at the restaurant downstairs from me. I can see the muddy patch of dirt that was incorporated into the designs for Leith walk, not thinking that people were just trample across it, and wearing away the grass, a bit like Harvard Yard; next to it is the old clock, which they just put back in next to the intersection, after years of being in storage, and I know what it was like before all of this.

So, at 44, it feels like I found my home. God willing and the creek don’t rise, we will be here when I am 54, and 64, and, if I can stretch it out that long, 84. This is the community we are committing to.

Now, to make it work.