The Move Out

Every time I move, someone reminds me that moving is one of the 3 most stressful events in one's life. A job change and a separation/divorce make up the other two, and I'm also going through the former. Fun times. But as long as David doesn't leave me, I'll be ok.

So we started our move yesterday morning, running a few errands in Levallois before taking off for Conflans. We picked up the keys from the agency and arrived at the apartment just in time to meet the IKEA movers. It took only 20 minutes for them to bring in the components of our kitchen and leave a stack of 20 flat-packed boxes and two appliances on our new living room floor.

As with every IKEA project I've ever undertaken, I paced around the boxes muttering. There is no possible way that all that stuff is in these boxes. It's impossible. Something must be missing. We're going to have to go back to the store and explain in French that something is wrong. The real estate agent came by with the paperwork and saw me sitting on an IKEA box on the floor, eyes glazed over. "She's scared, eh?" she asked David. "Doesn't know where to start?"

She was right. I had no idea where to begin. But I didn't have time to stress for long, as we had to return to Levallois to wrap some things up. Back in the apartment, I made lunch while David talked to our insurance and cable companies. Then I finalized our address change with La Poste and confirmed the moving company was coming the next day. We picked up some tools and returned to Conflans.

By the time were back into the apartment, it was 5:30. We circled the piles of boxes again, then finally dove in. Over the course of the evening we began to assemble our kitchen. And, like every other IKEA project, we were pleasantly surprised to find that everything was neatly packaged inside those clever little flat boxes and not a single screw was missing.

At one point in the evening we were thirsty, so I took a walking tour near the apartment and found a pita shop, which will inevitably become our new place for last minute meals. When I walked in the three guys behind the counter stopped their conversation to look at me. They were not unfriendly, but I definitely had the feel of "what do you want?". I was going to have to make friends with a new set of fast-food guys.

As the night wore on, we spoke less and less, and the only sounds were the bangs of hammers and the occasional curse bouncing off the empty walls. Finally at 12:30 in the morning, after David damaged one drawer and I dropped the same screw four times, we decided to call it a night. We wearily drove back to Levallois, where we immediately began worrying over details of the next day's move and pushing things into useless piles: stuff staying, stuff going, stuff to throw away. Finally we gave up and went to bed at 2:00.

A mere 5 hours later I was being nudged out of bed and toward the shower. The moving company showed up at 8:30, just as the refrigerator delivery men were calling to complain that no one was at the other apartment. David flew out the door with our valuables zipped into a suitcase and I was left with three surly moving guys.

The guys had a look around, asked some basic questions, and started bringing in boxes. I was remined of our last move, when I had nervously watched three strangers pack and haul away everything that belonged to us. The feeling was the same, and I paced back and forth, watching the guys work. I thought there might be liability problems if I got involved, but after a little experimentation I learned that they could care less if I wanted to pack my own stuff. So I participated here and there, making boxes and packing easy stuff like cds and books.

I just wanted the whole thing over and done with and those strangers out of my apartment. And so did Oliver. When they lifted the box spring from the bed, the cat was revealed. He certainly wasn't expecting to be exposed like that and went into a panic. I felt so bad for him, I scooped him up and asked our upstairs neighbors to watch him for a few hours. They have a little girl and I thought she'd like it.

Half an hour later it occured to me that an upset Oliver might react by making a mess on our kind neighbor's carpeting, so I dashed upstairs with his carrier box. I figured if I put him in the carrier, he'd only mess himself, instead of their flooring. Well, when I got up there, my amused neighbor pointed to the kitchen. Oliver had climbed beneath the sink and wedged himself between the cleaning fluids and the potatoes, completely out of anyone's reach. After a bit of pleading I convinced him to take a few steps toward me. Then I grabbed him, and we had a bit of a struggle, spilling potatoes everywhere. I carried the squirming cat to his box, which was not at all well received. Finally he won, climbed over my shoulder, and darted for their bathroom. What a disaster. I decided that at least in the bathroom he wouldn't make a mess of any carpeting, and left him again.

Back in the apartment, I watched and worried and packed until the early afternoon. As more and more furniture was removed, I noticed the sounds of this apartment were changing. When someone dropped a screwdriver or banged a door, the sound echoed throughout. The apartment was coming less my home and more an empty place I used to live in. I wondered if home is really where your heart is, or where your furniture is?

I went back upstairs to fetch Oliver, who was alltogether angry with me, and clawed me all the way back downstairs. I was starving, so I decided to buy myself lunch before cleaning the apartment. I walked down to the pizza place at the corner, where the guy behind the corner smiled when I walked in and offered me a piece of bread he'd just pulled out of the oven. I put in my order and sat at a table near the counter, and the two of us stared wistfully out the window and talked about the weather, like we always do. I decided not to tell him that we were leaving, he would only have to pretend he cared and I would have to pretend that I believed him.

The rest of the afternoon I spent with our new vaccuum, five bottles of cleaning fluids, two sponges, and a very unhappy cat. Despite being back in our apartment, the loss of furniture upset him terribly, and he proceeded to cry persistantly throughout the rest of the day. He was like a living alarm clock I couldn't turn off. Anyway, I vaccuumed up the colony of dust bunnies living in the apartment, scrubbed the walls, scraped at the kitchen, and was halfway through the bathroom when David arrived. I was so exhausted, he took the sponge out of my hand and instructed me to rest while he finished. Oliver joined me, finally silent, and together we zoned out on the futon, both so stressed and tired, we were just happy to be sitting together, happy that David was back. Let's get out of this apartment.