Saturday, August 15, 2009

Moving Day


I call this one, "OWWW SHIT!"

Between that, another scratch on my leg, and something hurting on my toe, it's been a while since I've seen this much bloodshed.

Today was moving day (obviously)-- just me, moving on up, down to Williamsburg. It's a 3-week sublease, this time in a beautiful loft apartment with two roommates and a tiny bedroom that can just about fit me and a suitcase. Loft bed, too. We will see how that goes.

I decided to move via the bus, because it's about a 25 minute ride each way with less than 5 minutes walking. The taxi/cars around here can charge whatever they want and I wanted to avoid that hassle.

There were 2 solid exchanges between apartments: I brought a big suitcase and a little one each time. The second, I washed my (now) former apartment's bedding-- having a washer/dryer on the same floor and inside my apartment building is Fan. Tas. Tic.--while eating a Papa Lima sandwich.

The last trip to the Greenpoint apartment was when I realized I couldn't take the bus again without decapitating myself. My crap had been breeding while I was away. A big wheely suitcase, a full blue IKEA bag, a full Steve Madden bag, and my smaller carry-on still crowded around me when I got back. WHERE DID ALL THIS CRAP COME FROM? HOW DID IT GET HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?

So. I returned the room to its former glory (see figure 1 below) and then took a car. The driver magically charged me the actual amount this time, so there was no exchange like the one I had last week:

Me: "Thanks! How much?"
Surly Driver: [long pause] "Uh, $10."
Me: "I'll give you $6."
Him: "Sounds good."

Asshole.

I dumped all my stuff on the sidewalk and struggled to get it inside the building. Two muscly young men watched me in interest, leaning on their truck 5 feet away. When I got it all past the door in two trips, a group of self-proclaimed "strapping" British men on their way up offered to help me wheel my big suitcase into the elevator.

And thus, I have discovered that I have British neighbors who are extremely nice living somewhere upstairs. Ca-ching!

(Notice how unbelievably sexy my old room is. I will always remember it fondly, even if the building will always be a crack den and the G train sucks.)

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