It’s moving day. After Andrew finishes classes, he’ll rent us a car, and we’ll move ourselves from Montjuic to Eixample in a few packed car trips. Hopefully. As we packed our things last night, it became abundantly clear that we’ve accumulated a lot of stuff. The move won’t be as easy as we thought it would be.
Andrew hasn’t been here for that short a time—over a year—and I’ve been here, for the most part, for five months; but the amount of stuff we have is surprising considering that the rest of our stuff—indeed, most of our stuff—is still in the U.S. We’ve accumulated several boxes of books, buying them, receiving them, bringing them over en masse every chance we have; we have (okay, I have) tons of clothes, many of which I’d like to divest myself of but don’t yet know where to donate them; and we have a few boxes of kitchenware. Not to mention a few lamps, a desk, a shelf, pillows, towels, and a random assortment of iPods and hard drives and cell phones and endless wires and cords. How is it possible that we’re nearly at moving-van-stage, when I feel like we have, really, only the basics?
Anyway. Moving is almost always sad for me, leaving a place behind forever, even when the move is exciting and good, the next apartment charming and cozy. I dislike these dislocated states—at this moment, we’re between homes, not quite of either one. I’ll be glad when we’re settled in our lovely new place. But it is strange to know this is the last time I’ll sit at my desk with this particular view over the back-balconies and courtyards of the neighboring buildings; the last few washes I’ll hang out on these particular taut lines; the last evening we’ll hear the Font, and see the fanned spotlights behind the Palau, and walk past the eerie blue glow of the Caixa Forum’s entranceway on our way home from dinner.
This is the home I had in mind during all those months of buying endless plane tickets for visits and watching the clock for flights, and, eventually, the home I envisioned during those final few months when I was waiting to move to Spain. It’s the apartment I left and came back to, again and again. It’s been a good apartment. It’s served us well. Now, on to the next.