It’s a familiar story for most of us, especially readers and movie-watchers: the city transplant landing in the country. Whether due to a witness-protection mandate (« Did You Hear About The Morgans? »), a mid-life crisis (« City Slickers ») or to avoid the IRS (« For Richer Or Poorer »), sending city folk to live among their country kin is usually a recipe for hilarity.
While I’m not strictly a city girl, I have grown up close to Washington, D.C. — and always feel more metro than country. Some kids in my suburban town drive tractors around the family farm, sure, and you’re likely to spot Southern Maryland’s agricultural roots on a drive through the tri-county corridor. But for the most part? All the country-music-listenin’, yeehaw-shoutin’ camaraderie hasn’t always endeared me to a slower-paced lifestyle. I didn’t relate to it.
I love London. And New York. And San Francisco…
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