While waiting in line for the photocopy machine today I ended up talking to a colleague who is considering teaching in the UK. Sharing some of my experiences with her suddenly made me nostalgic for that magic ‘I’m living on the other side of the world’ feeling. I imagined what it would be like to live somewhere with more than a few hundred years’ worth of history, to tell my children stories of ancient people while we walked down the same streets they did. Then I arrived home, just in time to see my dad walking up the street with the girls in the double stroller. He watches them every Wednesday while I work. After he left we introduced Miss A to her new bike while dinner cooked in the oven. She travelled up and down our street, and I thought about how we knew the names of the people who lived in each house we passed. I thought about how, when our dog escapes for a romp around the neighbourhood, he doesn’t get very far because everyone within a 5 block radius knows who he belongs to. I thought about the fact that, when we take the girls to our local park, they always know at least 3 other kids playing there well enough to join in whatever game they’re playing. How if I’m chasing after Miss K when Miss A wants to climb the monkey bars, another mom will lift her up because she knows I won’t mind without having to ask. And I think: we might not have cobblestone roads, but my girls have a history here.