Ah, moving. Once again the flurry of things to do, the scrambling for empty boxes from the nearest supermarket, the packing and unpacking and repacking, the keep-and-toss triage. This time with a unique flavor: take as little as you need and leave everything abandoned, in storage, to be recouped months later. Moving without a house to live in, vagabond-style. Simply landing there.
They say that moving is one of the two most stressful situations in a person’s life. I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is, it shouldn’t be. Thus I have determined not to let it get to me. I must learn to appreciate the last minute revolution in my routine, the avalanche of stuff accounted and unaccounted for spilling from my closets. With the move come the inevitable and annoying questions: what to do about the leftover food in the fridge? There are no stray dogs in this antiseptic country, and the homeless at the bus station are picky about their food. And what about the accumulation of cables and connectors, useless electronics that cannot be thrown away for one reason or another, not yet, at least, there is data inside that can still be gotten to?
But we do it, for the promise of something better, something grander. You see, a better offer has come up, and I finally see myself going off to San Francisco; finally, I say, after almost six months of dreaming of an existence there. Not a long time I know, but you have not been living in the middle of nowhere in North Central Florida, completely disconnected from the world, something that wreaks havoc on urbanites like me, born and raised on the bustle and smug of a small but brutal city.
Off we go, then, and it feels like I’ve been waiting at the airport gate this entire time. Off we go, and it’s all I can do to contain a sigh of relief.