I have never been to Europe.  I have also never been to Milwaukee, Hawaii, Siberia, China, New York City, San Franscisco, Seattle, Anchorage, Oklahoma City, Tuscon, Columbus, Vancouver, or Amsterdam.  I spend most of my time plopped on my ass in front of a computer screen, vicariously experiencing the life that surely must be more exciting in other parts of the world. 

Twenty five years ago two people who still remain complete strangers to me gave birth to their first daughter, a squalling beast thing named Moira. 

What wasn’t so remarkable was that my parents brought the child into the world; people have children daily in all parts of the world.  What’s crazy about the situation is that those two people gave birth to a child in England and barely four years later moved to America where they knew practically no one. 

Why did they move to America?  Why did I grow up in America?  How can it be that I, a child of Europe, a pair of travelers’ blood in my veins, can be twenty-five years old and hardly a traveler of my own country save the rest of the world?