Twas the night before the Olympics

Was it possible, the night before the Olympics that I--the most non-sport person in the world---could be anticipatory of the Olympics Opening tomorrow. Or was it because I forgot to turn off the iPad in our bedroom and the flight path to/fro Heathrow was noisily overhead in Esher, why I had trouble going to sleep?

Whatever, it is Friday. And the bustle is on. First my darling daughter wakes at 5:30 AM (truly?) and when her 5-year-old wakes at 6AM they are off on bikes to Hampton Court less than 2 miles away to see the Olympic torch on its merry way.

The sitter has been booked, from 3 Pm to 2 AM or so (oye veh!).

The husband is off to his office in London, calling in reports on tube issues and in casual dress (jeans and l/s shirt).

The adults of the house are tingling in anticipation and discussing, is it worth staying up to 12:30 AM to listen to Sir Paul sing that old saw one more time?

So we will be off, soon. By the time Chicago is just arriving at work, we'll begin the two-hour train and foot trip to the Olympic site (please hold up my wearing out orthodics!)

Will we make the Sir Paul finale, or like half of Team GB not be there for the athletes walking about the venue for 1.5 hours--leaving to begin our 2 hour voyage home.

After all, tomorrow is another day. And we have 9 AM basketball tickets for China versus Czech Republic, then Russia versus Canada. And darling dearest daughter of our WAS born in "Oh Canada." And we had begun our landed immigrant status drill, to gain Canadian citizenship (one of my shoulda-woulda-done it moments, left uncompleted.)

And as for security. Define security. Life is a lottery, every moment lived on the edge of death. Nothing lasts forever. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let fear guide my life.

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    Candace Drimmer

    I was an accidental expatriate; love and marriage led me to it. One day I was a bandy-legged kid sitting atop my dogwood tree looking out of my small backyard world in 1950s New Jersey, wanting to move somewhere--anywhere, different. Next thing I knew my father had accepted a job in Houston TX. I was ecstatic, it was a foreign land in 1961 America. After high school graduation, my parents’ gave me a matched set of fawn-colored hardsided American Tourister luggage. Taking the hint, I went to college; well four colleges in five years--it was the 60s after all. Meeting a young hirsute anti-war, soon-to-be-Peace Corps volunteer, I fell in love. After finishing up college coursework for my degree, but before I even walking a graduation stage, I grabbed the paper airline ticket my boyfriend had sent me, my brand-new passport, and was off to the airport and Lima, Peru.

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