Moving Weekend
In the city that never rains, it rained the entire weekend, soaking our moving festivities in a pretty much nonstop downpour. We like rain—except when we have to make a million trips out to the car. Except when our movers put half our stuff in the back of their open-bed pickup. Except when our shoes squeak endlessly on our hardwood floors as we shift boxes and furniture around.
Moving day, Saturday, began with the movers showing up an hour and a half late. A couple of phone calls later, they did actually show up, two young guys who managed to break only one $5 lamp. Even when someone else is doing all the heavy lifting, moving is exhausting.
But we’re here now, in our charming house, semi-unpacked. We have no refrigerator, but that will arrive between three and five this afternoon. Our TV and internet are set up. All the stuff (except the refrigerated food) is out of our former apartment. The dishes and glasses, at least, are in the cupboards; the books will be unpacked once we get a new bookshelf. (Will there ever be a move that doesn’t involve buying a new bookshelf? I haven’t had one that I can remember.) I always feel a bit melancholy when things are in boxes--transitory, unmoored, with no places yet for things.
Now the settling in begins—and the deflecting of the constant stream of scorn that seems to be coming our way for moving here. When the Comcast guy was installing our cable yesterday and found out where we’d moved from, his eyes grew wide in disgust and incredulity. “You moved from midtown to Roseville?!” he said, not bothering to hide his horror. “It’s not forever,” we said. “We’re from the East Coast. We’ll be going back.” Turns out he’s from New Jersey, but married a third-generation Rosevillian. “I used to say that too,” he said, “but I think I’m here for good.” “Not us,” we said firmly. “Not us.”
Moving day, Saturday, began with the movers showing up an hour and a half late. A couple of phone calls later, they did actually show up, two young guys who managed to break only one $5 lamp. Even when someone else is doing all the heavy lifting, moving is exhausting.
But we’re here now, in our charming house, semi-unpacked. We have no refrigerator, but that will arrive between three and five this afternoon. Our TV and internet are set up. All the stuff (except the refrigerated food) is out of our former apartment. The dishes and glasses, at least, are in the cupboards; the books will be unpacked once we get a new bookshelf. (Will there ever be a move that doesn’t involve buying a new bookshelf? I haven’t had one that I can remember.) I always feel a bit melancholy when things are in boxes--transitory, unmoored, with no places yet for things.
Now the settling in begins—and the deflecting of the constant stream of scorn that seems to be coming our way for moving here. When the Comcast guy was installing our cable yesterday and found out where we’d moved from, his eyes grew wide in disgust and incredulity. “You moved from midtown to Roseville?!” he said, not bothering to hide his horror. “It’s not forever,” we said. “We’re from the East Coast. We’ll be going back.” Turns out he’s from New Jersey, but married a third-generation Rosevillian. “I used to say that too,” he said, “but I think I’m here for good.” “Not us,” we said firmly. “Not us.”
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