Thursday, 1 May 2014

Moving moves

Moving is every bit as dreadful as I remembered. And moving in, let me tell you, in particular. Boys, you see, have ridiculous amounts of socks. Which makes absolutely no sense seeing how in general they, too, only tend to have two feet. Though girls do have inordinately many pairs of shoes. That come with matching bags...

Our situation is definitely not helped by the fact that one of us is a food blogger and comes with 300 mismatched plates and 500 cooking utensils. And on top of that there are the pots and pans and pasta machines and meat mills and blenders and muffin tins and oven dishes and blow torches and pie tins. And the cook books. And the other one being a literature enthusiast doesn't add to the harmony either: his load consisted of 3000 kilos of books. No, I'm not exaggerating. Quickly one learns that no matter how much bigger the new place is, the quantity of square metres at our disposal is still the same: not enough.

Should there ever be a next time, I'll move in with a legless illiterate.

That's only the beginning of the life's lessons this move has taught me. One of the most important ones is this: never, ever move into an apartment neither one you has ever actually seen before. There are things that need to be taken into consideration. Such as light, which, for a food photographer is pretty crucial. Our windows are blocked by a church. Which I'm fairly certain they are not willing to tear down just to make my life a.k.a. blogging easier. And those drawings I can't decipher that they call blue prints are, apparently even at their best , only there to give you an idea. And fail to tell you that the bath room is far too small to actually accommodate the washing machine you only bought just a couple of years ago. Or that there is only enough closet space for the clothes of one of you. In my attempt to be creative and solve several problems in one go I did suggest The Boy Next Door he become a naturist. He hasn't really warmed to the plan. Yet, anyway.

But there are some upsides, too. Such as the new kitchen. And seeing how our windows face a church, there's no need to worry about the ugly naked neighbours. And Museokatu with all its specialty shops is just next door!

But moving, it really moves. Not just addresses, but people. Me it has moved to tears. Several times. I've become a hysterical stress eater sucking whipped cream straight our of the nozzle of the can. See, moving is always time for reflection. As you're packing your worldly possessions into a pile of boxes that never seem to end, you're also packing away something so much more significant: your past. As you're saying goodbye to the the minuscule square metres that, in spite of their inherent dysfunctionality have managed to become so dear, you're also saying good bye to so many other things. People, events, memories. And yourself: all the people you thought you were and all the people you dreamed of becoming. 

Though there is a whole new life (and a proper kitchen!) waiting at the end of the enormous endeavor, the joy is marred by the sadness over losing my own space, which hits you as you're turning the key in the lock for the very last time. What if this won't work out? What if being with someone every day is going to be too much for me?

See, until now I've at least theoretically been able to hold onto some degree of mystery and hide things about me that I'm not that excited about. But now it's all about to come roaring out. Then what? When the other person finds out I eat roe paste straight out the tube? That my consumption of dips is totally out of control (I kid you not: for every bag of crisps I go through 6 tubs of dip)? That in the early hours of the morning I watch films the purpose of which is just to make the viewer cry? That without that strategic half an hour spent in the bathroom in the morning my hair looks like something out of a Tim Burton- film? That I only ever read cook books? That when I cook, my iPod blasts out Israeli rap music from a band the appreciation of which in its own country is somewhere between Honey Boo Boo and Weird Al Yancovic? And actually sing along? What if all that proves to be too much for the other person?

Now, a good hundred boxes later we're almost there. And only one of us broke their back while doing it. Here it starts: our life together. We've already survived our first trip to IKEA with no meltdowns. In stead of world peace, I've started dreaming of night stands and in the throes of my nesting mania I'm convinced the quality of everyone's life will be significantly improved by me finding The Right Towel Rack into the bath room. 

Kitchen (and the dishwasher! How could I ever even imagine a life without it?!) has been christened and Christ - after 1,5 square metres that was my old kitchen it's a massive step up. My bags are still waiting to have a shelf built for them and I've yet to locate half of my shoes in the midst of all the boxes and bags waiting to be unpacked. But what we lack in square metres, we more than make up for in love.

I have finally come home 




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