The movers will arrive in exactly one week. We will cram our stuff into cardboard boxes labeled stuff. We will pack our bags and collapse the bugaboo, and probably attach a few “free” post-it notes to the lamps and fans we set out on the street. Without a doubt, we will underestimate the amount of time and energy needed to clean under the kitchen sink. We will toast to a nice Burgundy and try to ignore the sadness behind our goodbyes; pull the keys off their ring, and our apartment will simply become a flat. Fulham will no longer be home.
Moves require motion, this one an ocean between our A and B. Friendships, I’m afraid, cannot be packed, and this makes it hard to leave. It also made it hard to come here in the first place. We have packed cardboard boxes, before.
Our jet-lag will be long gone by the time our boxes labeled stuff have tackled the locks of the Panama Canal. We will have seen several apartments, some in our old San Francisco neighborhood, some maybe somewhere new. We will have picked one with walls once worn down we can call home. Someone will hand us the keys, and we will start to break down our boxes, toast to a nice California Chardonnay. Then we will say, Oh that stuff? Leave it for later, let’s call our friends in London to let them know we’ve made it.