Skipping Town

Walking with Lucia in New York is quite the experience. Strangers wave and smile; they nudge each other and point; they mutter “Cute” as they walk past. “Those are the nicest toes I’ve seen all day,” a white-haired lady with a cane announced on Broadway and 73rd yesterday, pointing at Lucia’s bare babyfeet. “She’s like a little doll!” a little girl observed to her mother outside Gray’s Papaya today, where I may have been eating a hot dog on the corner while waiting for the light to change. Indeed. A little doll who allowed us a mere four hours of sleep last night—but I digress. Despite a dramatic appearance of Fusskins this morning, Lucia and I had a lovely afternoon. It was a gorgeous day—low seventies, no humidity, just blue sky and sun. We walked along 72nd Street from Riverside Boulevard to Central Park and entered the park through Strawberry Fields; we wound our way to the bandshell and took in the city sights. There was a man wearing black hotpants and rollerblades taking a quick...

Sunday we’d planned to go to a farmers market on 77th Street, maybe go to Central Park afterwards, get something nice for lunch on the Upper West Side—just have a relaxing, fun, New York day. Instead, at 4:30am, Andrew woke up in excruciating pain; he could barely stand up, and was covered in cold sweat. He would have been crying out in pain had the baby not been asleep. At 6am, we rushed downstairs and put him in a taxi to the ER; Lucia and I followed by foot. When we arrived, Andrew was hooked up to an I.V. delivering pain medication—he had kidney stones. Fortunately, after a few hours, he was fine, and he was home by noon. He said he’d been checked in right before two guys who’s OD’ed, and they released him because they were expecting a large influx thanks to the Gay Pride Parade. The whole ER was swarming with police. Ah, New York! What an awful experience—and one that solidifies my already-vehement belief in never going even one day without health insurance. I may be the world’s m...

After a week of dashing around Brooklyn, we’ve finally found a home; we signed the lease on Friday. It is in Park Slope, just a few blocks from where I used to live, a parlor-level, high-ceilinged apartment in a beautiful brownstone just off of 5th Avenue. It is an ideal place for us: two light-filled, good-sized bedrooms, big kitchen and dining room, character-ful living room, even a small extra room off the hallway whose use we are currently planning. It was a difficult choice at the end. We’d also found a garden-level apartment on a prime block in Carroll Gardens, another wonderful Brooklyn neighborhood, with a landscaped, private garden in the back in which we could plant vegetables—and in which there was a fig tree. Andrew had found the apartment through a co-worker—it’s not the kind of place that one finds the usual way—and the owners, an Italian couple, offered it to us after a quick meeting without so much as a credit check. But the apartment was dark, as garden-level places ar...

It’s a belated letter, but a letter nonetheless; when you turned eight months old, we were computerless, having just overseen the packing up of our house in Roseville. For two days you had nowhere to sit except on our laps or in your stroller, as we watched all of our furniture and things being packed and loaded into a truck headed East. You hated the sound of packing tape being spooled out, erupting into hysterical cries each time you heard it, so you and I spent a good amount of time walking around the neighborhood and on the nearby hiking trail, escaping the noise. But now here you are, eight months old and a true city girl. We have been amazed at your adaptability and calm during these hectic past few days. You slept the whole flight over, and, after a very fussy and confused first day, have gotten right back onto your regular schedule and have been sleeping better than ever. You seem to love New York—you love walking around in your new umbrella stroller, and you sometimes prop you...

Hello, social network. My social-media-savvy husband suggested in an enthusiastic rush last night that we should "tap our social network" to try to find a NYC apartment instead of going about this in the traditional way. I cringed, of course, but agreed to "tap" what social network I had, which probably amounts to, oh, about ten blog readers. So, my New York readers: if you have any leads on 2-bedroom apartments (or 1+ den) in brownstone Brooklyn at $3,000/month max., let me know. You have in your hands the power to transform my skepticism/annoyance at "social networking" forever.

We made it. After a successful redeye Wednesday night—Lucia slept the whole way!—we arrived in NYC a bit overburdened and tired but happy and excited. We have not, however, yet found the New York life we’ve been waiting for. Andrew had arranged for a car to meet us at JFK; a driver with our name on a sign greeted us in baggage claim, and a huge black Escalade drove us into the city. (We had Lucia’s carseat with us.) A car and driver, an Escalade, our name on a sign—this certainly isn’t our New York life (but it was blessedly easy and convenient with our baby and our bags). Our destination: Trump Place, a huge luxury apartment building overlooking the Hudson on the Upper West Side, where the doormen greeted us as we dragged our stuff through the marble lobby to our temporary corporate housing. A doorman, a luxury building, a marble lobby—this isn’t our New York life either; it was arranged for us before we arrived. Our temporary quarters are perfectly comfortable, with four forks and fo...

The movers come tomorrow to pack up our California life, and so I will post my final California missive tonight. It feels exceedingly strange to have so little time left but have our house remain more or less intact—as though leaving is something far off, abstract, instead of imminent. My next post will be dispatched from New York City. I’m sure there will be much to report. *** Before moving to California in 2007, I’d never been here. And so I had in my mind only a fabricated highlight reel of what California was: L.A., the Pacific coast, hilly San Francisco, vineyards. Movie stars, tech prodigies, surfers. I imagined people said things like “Dude, I’m pumped” and ate a lot of bean sprouts. Without any facts to go on, I relied on the myth, imagining California to be a place where I’d feel a particular kind of freedom, or privilege, a place that promised something, though it wasn’t exactly clear what. I also imagined myself not quite fitting in—a dark-haired, bookish, sun-fearing East ...

Two days to go. We’ve been saying our goodbyes; Andrew to his coworkers on Friday, me to a couple of mom-friends on Thursday; the farmer’s market on Sunday; and, Saturday, to the Clarks. Well, three of the Clarks; Beth and Rowan were at a wedding in Pennsylvania. But Nate, Henry, and Elena came up for lunch and World Cup viewing, one final afternoon together. Well, final for the West Coast, anyway. We know we’ll see them again once they move back to Pittsburgh (in 458 or so days). Still, it’s sad to say goodbye. We all moved to NorCal at roughly the same time, and we’ve been going out to lunch and journeying to San Francisco and watching sports and playing with kids together for three years now. And our group has grown—first it was four adults and two babies; then four adults and two toddlers; then four adults, two toddlers, and a newborn; and, finally, four adults, two toddlers, a baby, and another newborn. Our lunches out have gotten logistically complex, with high chairs and car sea...

We sold Vern—our 1997 Volvo—today. After two weeks of unfruitful Craigslist listings, Andrew learned of a local college that, every weekend, for a fee, opens their parking lot to used cars for sale. They arrange the showings, and then interested parties can contact the sellers to arrange a test drive and, ultimately, the sale. We delivered Vern at 6pm last night; got a call at 10pm; and, after Andrew met the buyers for a test drive at 7:30am today, Vern left us for good. The buyers were a couple and their sixteen-year-old son; they wanted a safe, cheap car for him. We’d priced Vern to sell—there are some flaws that need fixing, but I think they still got a deal. We’re sad to see him go. He was with us for all three years of our California life, taking us on countless road trips, giving us our first taste of car ownership; we brought Lucia home from the hospital in Vern. He was a good car, bearing his original bumper sticker—“THE CHRISTIAN RIGHT IS NEITHER”—with amusement and grace. I r...

This is the first time I’ve ever returned to a place I’d left. All the other big moves in my life—to college in Ohio; to Spain—had finite end dates, and when I left, that was that. I have, of course, visited Dayton, and, surely, will visit Spain. But it’s unlikely that I’ll live in either place again. When I left New York, however, I was certain I’d return. It felt like a temporary departure, not a permanent one; even now, nearly five years later, it feels like I’ve only just left. And here we are, ready to return. Whenever I tell anyone we’re returning to New York, I’m tempted to say “in a blaze of glory”—as though we’ve endured something, or overcome it, to get back. This isn’t at all the case. We left willingly, even happily, for greater things (Barcelona) and necessary things (first post-MBA job), and are now returning, quite naturally, for the next step in Andrew’s career and our family life. The “glory” that keeps popping into my head, however, does have a meaning that’s less dra...

It’s our last Thursday in California—our first last day. For the past seven months or so, ever since Andrew went back to work and I started having whole days alone with Lucia, I’ve looked forward to Thursdays. Thursday meant there was just one day to go before the weekend, when Andrew would be around; Thursday meant our evening of shows ( The Office , Parks & Recreation , 30 Rock ), something to look forward to after long, often teary days with the baby. The days haven’t been teary for quite a while now, of course, but Thursday still always seems like a good day, just a short hop to the weekend. Who knows what Thursdays will look like now? It probably says something about my current mindset—my anticipation of a brand-new life—that I foresee even ordinary weekdays as being somehow transformed by this move. Andrew, too, is anticipating a life that will be all-new. Last night, coming home after an evening round of golf and dinner with some co-workers, he remarked on the beautiful nigh...

Yesterday, as I went about my day, I realized that in exactly one week I will no longer be doing almost anything in the same way, or at all. Here’s a brief recap. Early in the morning, Andrew and I each got into one of our Volvos and took a twenty-minute drive on a seven-lane highway to bring our new Volvo in for a routine maintenance checkup. We returned to Roseville in one car. After dropping Andrew off at work, I drove home to our house, walked with the baby through the front door, and left the door open to get some fresh air. It was very quiet, save for the hammering from the roofers. I packed a bag and we drove to a friend’s house so Lucia could take her nap in peace. Later, we swam with my friend and her baby in her lovely backyard pool. None of these things—none—will be possible a week from now. I had the same strange thought on Monday, in the evening, after my long day at the mall, when we brought Lucia’s saucer contraption outside so she could play while Andrew washed the cars...

Things are in motion, frenetically. We spent the weekend fielding calls and emails from Craigslist buyers, and sold our washer, refrigerator, desk, printer, canning jars, and dining room table and chairs. This was sad. Our house looks empty without that table (the appliances will stay with us until we move), and I was really sorry to sell it. But it’s just so big—completely unrealistic to imagine bringing it to NYC. And storing it until we buy a house would turn it into a really, really expensive table, and if/when we’re ready for a really, really expensive table, we’d like to pick one out purposefully. We also returned all the stuff people have lent us, took a big carload to Goodwill, and sold a big box of books to a used bookstore. We’re very nearly down to the bare bones of our belongings—which is still a lot. But there are no more drawers or bags of “misc.,” which is an accomplishment; all the misc. has been discarded or otherwise organized, and it feels good to have things in orde...

Today was, I think, the last day of Roseville-normal. Lucia got up at 7. Andrew came home for lunch and got home for good at 5:30. In between Lucia and I played, took a walk, bounced in her doorway bouncer. Within the normalcy was a quickly escalating chaos; I juggled emails and phone calls from people interested in things I posted on Craigslist, and a couple of people came over to look at the car and the fridge. Andrew had to make an unexpected trip to the dermatologist (he’s fine), then had to rush back here with the car so someone could see it. Lucia can tell something’s up—she’s clingier than usual, wailing immediately as soon as I’m out of her sight. She’s usually fine playing on the floor blanket or in her saucer contraption while I putter around, but not the last couple of days. Starting next week, everything’s different. Roofers are coming on Sunday to start replacing the roof, a project that was supposed to take place while we were in New Hampshire. Of course, we’ve now cancel...

Having moved to five different apartments/houses over the past five years, with two of those moves involving massive off-loadings of possessions, you’d think, by now, we’d be pretty much down to the bare bones of our belongings, with only the most vital and meaningful things remaining. Your thinking would be incorrect. Now that we have an approximate departure date—it looks like we’ll be leaving around June 15—I’ve begun going through our things with a ruthless eye, trying to whittle a household down to an apartment’s worth of stuff. I’ve done this so many times, yet I still manage to be surprised by things that have, against all odds, stayed with me from NYC to Spain to California (with stints in my parents’ attic). For example, today I found three neat boxes of floppy disks, dating back fifteen years. What, pray tell, should I do with these? What’s on them? I have no idea. And because I have no idea, I can’t throw them away. So I’m going to start a box labeled DO NOT UNPACK, and take...