Article September 2, 2002 Issue

My trunk was packed, and I wanted to go home

By April Dawley

When I was a child , as soon as I could daydream, I pictured myself leaving home—working as a foreign correspondent in Europe (inspired by my dad's WWII experiences), or living in New York City and dancing on Broadway (inspired by Aunt Eloise, my dad's sister). Of course, I didn't know whether or not either of those dreams would come true, but I felt that the first step was to leave home—to move and breathe in a larger, busier, better place.

A good friend of the family suggested Boston as a city where I might find the opportunities I longed for. I liked the idea, and with my mother's help, I began planning and preparing for that move.

Finally, the day of departure arrived. Everything was set: A job was waiting for me at a publishing company, accommodations had been located; my trunk had been packed and shipped; flight reservations had been made. I was eager to go, ready to begin my adventure. I dressed with care, imagining how a "city girl" should look, and with a small suitcase in hand, left for the airport with my mom and younger brother.

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