Skipping Town

We leave on Monday, westward bound. Our destination: the Hyatt Regency in downtown Sacramento, from where we’ll search for an apartment and buy a car over the course of the next week. It seems incredible—ridiculous—that we’re actually going; the last two weeks have been such a nonstop whirlwind that thoughts of California have been muted at best. And yet here I am, taking a moment away from my “packing” to update my blog. I say “packing,” and not just packing, for this is a different beast entirely. Because we don’t yet know how long we’ll be staying, we’re taking only the bare minimum—I’ve packed only my favorite summer things, a few books that top my to-read list, the pile of new strappy shoes I’ve bought over the past two weeks (shopping in dollars again is wonderful—no denying that). I’m packing up the rest, all the other clothes and books and stuff I had with me in Spain, but I’m packing it to leave behind; it will all join my other boxes of stuff in my parents’ attic. All my nice...

We finally did it: we booked plane tickets to California. We even booked a hotel for our first week. We're really moving West. Way West. To a new state (for me), a new city (for us both). It seems hard to believe that I'll be living somewhere I've never even visited; all the other moves of my life have been to cities I'd been to at least once before--I had some sense of the spirit of the place. Not so with Sacramento. I have absolutely no image in my mind about what our life there will be like. I know we'll have a car (from where? what kind? how have we managed to buy it?) and I know we'll likely be living in either downtown Sacramento or Davis (can I walk to the grocery store? is there a cafe where I can sit outside? will there be a Target nearby?) in some sort of rented arrangement (will we manage to find something furnished? will we be sleeping on an air mattress? will the apartment be charming or soulless? will there be someplace outside where I can write?)....

We’re back. After all the packing, all the luggage (ten bags), all the transfers (Barcelona-Zurich-Chicago-Pittsburgh), all the jetlag, we find ourselves once again in the U.S. It was a difficult departure. A packed-up apartment never feels like home; and those last few hours were very sad. We took two cabs to the airport; I made sure Andrew had the talkative driver since I wanted nothing more than perhaps a raised eyebrow in the rearview mirror as I looked out the window and said a silent, teary goodbye to the city rushing past: our street, Passeig de Gracia, Rambla de Catalunya, Placa Espana. It was time to leave, but—even now—it seems impossible that we won’t be going back, climbing up the stairs of 181 Pau Claris and putting our skeleton key into our apartment door. The moody sadness that seemed inevitable has actually been kept at bay by our wedding. Who knew there could be so many details to take care of? Every element—the invitations, the cake, the centerpieces—require a hu...

Over a year ago, when I moved to Barcelona, I felt like I was embarking on a brand-new life. I’d sold all my belongings and furniture; broken my lease; quit my job; and left the world as I knew it behind to join the person I loved in a country I’d never thought much about at all. When I arrived, there was no set end point. Maybe we’d stay in Spain after Andrew finished the MBA; maybe we’d stay in Europe. Moving to Barcelona was like standing at the edge of a vast sea of possibilities. Indeed, it was a brand-new life. Long days in the city while Andrew was in class, long walks around Montjuic and then, when we moved in October, down Passeig de Gracia and La Rambla. Those walks made me love Barcelona. For the first time in what seemed like forever I felt inspired, finally in touch with that creative place that had seemed so walled off for so long; I’ve written 170 pages of a novel this year, and I think I have the city to thank. And the traveling: Andrew and I traveled determinedly, insa...

Today has been ridiculous. Though we’ve made an enormous “give-away” pile, and though we’ve sold almost everything we’d hoped to, the fact of the matter is that when two people cohabitate for a year (and when one of those people has lived in Barcelona for two years), stuff accumulates. Every one of our bags is over the weight limit, and we’ll each check and extra bag as well; we’ll be spending a small fortune in baggage fees, but it’s far cheaper than trying to ship things home, which would be a gigantic fortune (for one box). So, our sheepskin pelt is shoved in with Andrew’s critter pants; our books are “salted in” (Andrew’s favorite phrase) with our socks and shirts. This is going to be the most cumbersome, exhausting trip of all time, made no easier by the fact that we have not one but TWO connections. I want to go back to the playa . Some things are easy to leave behind. Both of us have officially worn out our clothes; as I tossed things into the give-away pile, it was surprising t...

Yikes.

As planned, I spent yesterday at the beach. It was gorgeous: a hot day but not uncomfortably so, perfectly clear water that was just right for swimming. An amazing beach day. I brought a book but spent most of the time just soaking in the sunshine, looking out over the water, people-watching. The beach is always crowded, even in the middle of the afternoon. Walking to the bus later along the palm-lined boardwalk, the idea of leaving this city seemed impossible. I spent the evening drinking claras on the terrace, then met Andrew at a nearby bar/café when he finally got back from Madrid. And today—Wednesday—is packing day. There is so much to do—I feel almost paralyzed by it—and after today the departure is going to be so much more real. At least a messy, strewn apartment looks lived in. A packed-up apartment just looks sad. I actually feel sick. The horrible, hollow feeling of imminent departure has set in, and I feel uncomfortably between places, ghostlike. Perhaps we can put this off...

It’s the final five days, and we’re definitely on the verge of losing our minds. Our apartment is a disaster—we’ve sold our bed now; at least we still have a mattress. Things are stacked and piled all over the place, trash along with the give-away bags, scrap paper along with important documents. It’s a mess. It’s hard to even be here. We’ve been trying to spend as much time away from the apartment as possible. Today, Tuesday, is Andrew’s birthday—31!—yet he has to spend the day in Madrid for an interview; I plan to vacate the premises asap and head to the playa with a book. All this stress is fueling our appetites. Yesterday, Monday, we had lunch at a place we’ve been wanting to try since we moved to this apartment—Bar Mut. It’s just a block up from us, and we’d read about it in the New York Times . It’s a tiny place with an eclectic assortment of seating; there are even two chairs by a piano, with the covered keys serving as the table. They have a variety of tapas and raciones . An...

Yesterday, Sunday, we sold more of our things—lamps, toaster, coffee maker, a shelf, my desk. We now have no lights in the bedroom (except for the zombie-light of the overhead), and we’re both huddled together at the table with our computers and one awkwardly placed lamp, papers and post-its and pens crammed in around us. It is a situation we can really only sustain for a few, very few, days. We had dinner at the Ultimo Agave, a Mexican restaurant we like (nearly impossible to find good Mexican food in Spain) and had to sadly say goodbye to it when we left. Things are getting very sad. But it’s actually an unstable combination of sad and hectic, both of us on edge in our own ways. I cope with hectic chaos by organizing whatever I can, in whatever way I can; yesterday that entailed separating and counting all our loose change, as well as tearing out blank sheets from a few notebooks so I could put them in the recycling bag. Very useful, I know. Andrew copes sometimes by organizing my or...

Yesterday was our final Saturday in Barcelona. We spent part of it selling things—two lamps, a fan, our wardrobe; now clothes are scattered throughout the apartment. We spent the afternoon at the beach. It was a beautiful day—hot but with a cooling breeze, the sky a brilliant blue. The beach was packed. The water was sparkling and clear, but still too cold for more than a quick, shivery dip. After a few hours, we drank claras at a beach bar, then headed home. Last night, we watched a Barcelona soccer match at a bar—our last one. The Spanish league championships will continue, but we’ll have to read about the matches online. This is very sad. Afterwards, we played poker at our apartment with a friend, then went to the local xurreria for a snack—fries and a hot dog wrapped in a churro (couldn’t resist trying this strange combination). The calm pleasantness of the day belies the utter chaos we’re in right now. Rather than hone in on a decision, we’re adding options every day; we’ve gon...

With five million things to do and less than two weeks left in which to do them, Andrew and I decided to handle our departure by simply setting it aside, denying its existence, and rebelling against it. In other words, we decided to take a road trip. A trip of denial and rebellion. Our destination: the País Vasco, or Basque Country, along the northernmost border of Spain. In keeping with our chaotic mezcla of options and scenarios, we planned the trip haphazardly. Andrew had rented a car last week, but we hadn’t really decided whether or not we’d go; and since we spent Saturday and much of Sunday on the Costa Brava, we were still debating Sunday night about whether we should just cancel the reservation. Monday morning, though, we decided to do it. We got the car, threw some things in the trunk, and set out for San Sebastian, with only the Avis map—a colorful map of all the roads and highways in Spain, with no indication whatsoever about what the names and numbers of those roads might ...

Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. Yesterday, we avoided all thoughts of packing and plans and took a train up the Costa Brava to a small town called Flaça, about an hour north of Girona. We’d been invited to stay the night at the seaside home of a married couple (the husband was a classmate of Andrew’s); he’s Swiss-German, she’s Catalan and six months pregnant. We arrived Saturday afternoon, and, after enjoying the view of the sea from their terrace, we drove to an absolutely beautiful coastal town called Calella de Parafrugell, full of hills and flowers and white-washed homes. There we met a Portuguese couple (another MBA friend, the wife also six months pregnant) for lunch at Tragamar, a lovely seafood restaurant overlooking the sea. It was an amazing meal: almejas (clams), anchovies and red peppers on toast, and a delicious rice stew full of mussels and squid and langostines and shrimp (this stew was different, we were told, from paella, in that it’s...

Two weeks from today, we’ll catch our flight back to the U.S. Whether or not this will be a permanent move is still up in the air; but we’re preparing as though it is. Overwhelmed by the sheer amount of things we have to do, Andrew and I have taken two bold steps in packing up our place. First, we sat down with our large bowl of business cards from restaurants and sorted through them, throwing some away, keeping others. Second, we packed up one “light” box (our sheep pelt from Romania, some DVDs, our Carnival masks from Venice) with the intention of mailing it, decided it was too heavy for UPS (7kg is over 250 euros—ouch) and that we don’t trust the Spanish postal system enough to send it that way, and subsequently are now stepping around the box in our living room. Progress.