The Perpetual Tourist

So, I'm pretty sure I'm in an identity crisis.
I have always considered myself a rural girl. I camp for fun. I can use a chainsaw. Getting stuck behind a tractor while driving is routine. Probably 30% of everything I own is from LL Bean. My rural-ness was greatly underscored while on my winter break visiting Madrid and New York City, where I had to be led by the hand through metros lest I get overwhelmed, and one night bought pizza at 3am and didn't stop talking about it all week (3am!). Pardon my french, but Manhattan blows my goddamn mind. 1.5 million people all standing on the same 34 square mile patch of land. That is so many people on so little land. How do they all fit? I can't think about it or I get agitated. So many people.
And yet... I am completely out of my league in Ely. I don't hunt my own meat. I have ironic sunglasses and large headphones. I don't dogsled to work (my boss does). I don't carry four knives on me at all times (my boss' husband does). When apartment hunting I had to emphasize that I wanted both electricity and running water, which narrowed the search. Sometime I layer my clothing for style and not for warmth. I've never seen a wolf or the northern lights.
Thus, I am gradually coming to terms with the fact that I am a perpetual tourist, caught in an uncomfortable limbo where I can neither use a city bus nor skin a moose.
It appears I'm destined to stumble around, wide-eyed and in culture shock, for most of my life. May as well go buy myself a visor and fanny-pack to complete the look. Unless I'm in a smallish town with comprehensive grocery stores and a major airport within a three hour drive, but no tall buildings or public transportation or more than one movie theater. Also: Ely being what it is, I have to drive over an hour away to get my disposable camera developed, and I'm irate about this.