 |
| The Andes |
 |
| Partially wing-obscured peak that I suspect is the tallest peak in southern Peru (the name of which escapes me) |
 |
| More Andes |
Monday, June 27, 2011
Whew! (Part 2)
After all of that, everything worked like a charm. While I recovered my passport, Amanda successfully changed our flight to a later one (apparently we had inadvertently bought flexible tickets - yay us!). The flight to Cusco went smoothly and breathtakingly through snow-capped Andean peaks (see below), putting us on the ground a mere 1.5 hours later than we were originally scheduled to arrive. Our hostel in Cusco is perfect and the town has a great vibe. We're off to explore!
Whew!
Wayward passport back in hand. Now, back to the airport and (fingers crossed) off to Cuzco.
 |
| Troublemaker |
But not before stopping to get gas. (Which is full service, and which apparently cannot be done while I'm still in the car... so I'll walk around and take pictures of the neighborhood.)
 |
| Taxi getting serviced |
 |
| View to the right |
 |
| View to the left |
Merde!
Amanda is standing in line at the domestic departures gate of the Lima airport. Our flight leaves in an hour.
I'm sitting in a shiny black Toyota taxi, worming my way through the traffic-clogged streets of Lima, choking on clouds of unfiltered exhaust. I've got another two hours (at least) of traffic and fumes (for a total of three this morning) before I get to the airport.
Or, rather, before I get BACK to the airport. Because after twelve years of international travel, I've done the unmentionable: I've left my passport at the hostel. On the first day of the trip!
It was a horrible feeling to be asked for my passport and not to find it; even worse to have to call Amanda back to tell her the news.
We shared a grim moment of reality, and then our pioneer/traveler pragmatism kicked in. We called the hostel to confirm that the errant document was, in fact, there (it was). Then I jumped in the taxi and Amanda jumped in line. Rendez-vous in two hours at the airport entrance.
Thus begins unplanned adventure number one.
I'm sitting in a shiny black Toyota taxi, worming my way through the traffic-clogged streets of Lima, choking on clouds of unfiltered exhaust. I've got another two hours (at least) of traffic and fumes (for a total of three this morning) before I get to the airport.
Or, rather, before I get BACK to the airport. Because after twelve years of international travel, I've done the unmentionable: I've left my passport at the hostel. On the first day of the trip!
It was a horrible feeling to be asked for my passport and not to find it; even worse to have to call Amanda back to tell her the news.
We shared a grim moment of reality, and then our pioneer/traveler pragmatism kicked in. We called the hostel to confirm that the errant document was, in fact, there (it was). Then I jumped in the taxi and Amanda jumped in line. Rendez-vous in two hours at the airport entrance.
Thus begins unplanned adventure number one.
 |
| Mucho trafico |
Another stamp in the passport
Once on the ground, we collected our bags, found our prearranged cab (he was holding a sign with Amanda's name, but since he was standing among about 80 other sign-bearing cabbies, it took us a minute to locate him), and headed to the hostal for a (short) night of much needed sleep.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Houston!
I generally think that, when traveling, one should put the most important things first, lest unexpected events prevent one from doing or seeing them -- so it was a real treat to find flights that would accommodate a six hour layover here. Even so, as anyone who has been here can attest, six hours isn't much time to take in everything this airport has to offer.
The fun started well before we got here. When we arrived at the departure gate in DC at 4:30am, we found that we would be flying with none other than the entire team of the Houston Dynamo (apparently Houston has a pro soiccer team). We immediately set out to find Amanda a boyfriend. She initially protested that she cared more about their brains and conversational skills than their athletic figures but later admitted to a certain weakness for nice arms (or, if none of those could be had --these being soccer plaers after all -- a well-turned calf).
Upon arrival in Houston, we embarked on an ambitious layover itinerary that consisted of:
1. Filling our water bottles at the drinking foutain;
2. Calling our parents;
3. Traveling to Terminal B;
4. Eating lunch at Chili's Too;
5. Calling Comcast to dispute the monthly bill;
6. Finding our departure gate on the monitors;
7. Traveling to Terminal C;
8. Calling our parents (again);
9. Taking pictures;
10. Playing with a giant tangram screen;
11. Sitting.
I feel like there's still so much to see and do here -- we could probably spend 12 hours here and still not see everything (I mean there's still all of terminals D and E to explore). I guess that just means we'll have to come back!
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Yay, I'm a llama again!
What do you watch the night before going to Cuzco, Peru?
That's right. Call it last-minute historical research. Booyah!
That's right. Call it last-minute historical research. Booyah!
No R.E.S.P.E.C.T. (but lots of other songs)
On Tuesday Amanda and I went out to Wolf Trap, an outdoor performing arts center outside of DC, for an Aretha Franklin concert. We had gotten lawn tickets so that we could have a picnic (which Amanda expertly assembled) on the grass before the show.
Unfortunately, as well-suited as lawn seating is for picnicking, it is not as well-suited for summer thunderstorms and showers. Which we had. Through most of the concert.
Not that rain could stop Aretha Franklin. She's kind of a force of nature. I had seen her a few years ago when I was at the Kennedy Center -- then I'd been backstage, with her bodyguards (each of whom were as big as four of me), her personal assistant (who looked like Tina Turner), and Aretha's coat (a giant fur thing, which according to the scandalized Tina Turner I was NOT supposed to touch despite having been handed it by the Queen of Soul herself) -- and I had been impressed by the way Aretha transformed from a heavy-set human woman off-stage into an electric presence onstage. She may be nearly seventy, and her voice is pretty shot, but she's still a star.
This time it was fun to see all of that from the audience's perspective. Of course, for most of the concert, I had to watch her through the narrow gap between two men's heads, beneath their umbrella.
At least her purple dress matched the purple flash of the lightning overhead.
For Amanda's take on the evening, click here.
Not that rain could stop Aretha Franklin. She's kind of a force of nature. I had seen her a few years ago when I was at the Kennedy Center -- then I'd been backstage, with her bodyguards (each of whom were as big as four of me), her personal assistant (who looked like Tina Turner), and Aretha's coat (a giant fur thing, which according to the scandalized Tina Turner I was NOT supposed to touch despite having been handed it by the Queen of Soul herself) -- and I had been impressed by the way Aretha transformed from a heavy-set human woman off-stage into an electric presence onstage. She may be nearly seventy, and her voice is pretty shot, but she's still a star.
This time it was fun to see all of that from the audience's perspective. Of course, for most of the concert, I had to watch her through the narrow gap between two men's heads, beneath their umbrella.
At least her purple dress matched the purple flash of the lightning overhead.
For Amanda's take on the evening, click here.
Just Say No
I need to catch up on the past few days. The wind-down at work before a long vacation (well, any vacation) is extremely challenging. It's always a herculean push to get projects wrapped up, passed on to other people, or otherwise gotten to a point where I can leave without abandoning the client. When I'm by myself, it usually turns into the all-too-standard work-around-the-clock drill.
This time, though, wasn't quite the normal drill. For one thing, I was coming off of an incredibly busy last few months, and I was exhausted and burned out. Even with the vacation as a light at the end of the tunnel, I couldn't keep up the pace. For another thing, even if I'd wanted to keep up the pace, I couldn't have. Moving is time consuming and exhausting in itself, and this move, while not exceptionally difficult, was not exceptionally easy, either. And finally, I wasn't by myself. I was hosting Amanda, and the last thing I wanted to do was be gone working all the time.
So I launched a "Just Say No" campaign at work. During the past few weeks, I turned down more work than I have since I started at the firm. No. No. I'm sorry, but NO. Not maybe. Not in a couple of days. No.
And it worked. Kind of. I didn't get the new assignments, and for the most part the senior lawyers were respectful and didn't push back. (One partner pulled the classic stunt, though: "Oh, I see, you're working 12 hour days and leaving on vacation soon? Well, if you could squeeze this in before Friday anyway, that would be great.")
But turning down new assignments is not the same as finishing the current ones -- and I still had a LOT of those. So although it could have been worse (and would have been had I not said no), the past couple of weeks have still been a challenge.
At first I thought I could do everything: Stay on top of work, entertain Amanda, finish moving into my apartment, satisfy my church callings. That daydream lasted for almost a week. By the end of a non-stop week, I was tired and frazzled and had moved into what, for me, is a very bad cycle: I set extremely high standards for myself, get over-committed, find myself falling short of my expectations, and then start berating myself brutally for every failure.
Unfortunately, that's what happened. I felt like I wasn't making enough headway at work, because I simply couldn't spend enough time working. But the more time I spent working, the less I could spend with Amanda. But the time I spent with Amanda was time not spent fulfilling my church calling. And time spent on all those other tasks prevented me from finishing my unpacking and settling into my apartment. It was one big failure fest.
A primary root of the problem was obvious: My normal life has no margins. When, from my usual perspective, things are going well, I operate at or very near 100% capacity. Which means that when unusual things happen (either for good, as with Amanda's visit; or for ill, as with the recent flooding), there is no room in my life to accommodate those things -- I necessarily tip into the overload point. And as much as I like to pretend otherwise, something always has to give.
But there was another aspect, as well; specifically, a deeply internalized feeling that my normal life is unacceptable. Working a 65-hour work-week, and then an additional 8-10 hours over the weekend, with the other week-end hours devoted to the mundane tasks of grocery shopping, exercising and sleeping, might be totally normal (and even, admittedly, generally acceptable) for me. But I always assume that it's not actually acceptable to other people. The expectation (either real or projected by me) is that I should lead a nicely balanced life, with interesting social, spiritual, intellectual and physical elements, and the judgment (either real or projected by me) is that the life that I ordinarily lead is inadequate and represents a failure on my part to prioritize appropriately and to be what I'm supposed to be. Moreover, it's a double-judgment: I'm failing because I try to do too much, and the fact that it's too much means that I'm failing at what I do, because if I was better at doing it, it wouldn't be too much. So, to have someone (in this case, Amanda) see my normal life, particularly when it's been taxed past the 100% tipping point, made me fear that all of these judgments would be realized and the failings brought to light and condemned. In short, that I would be seen as I am, and that I wouldn't be good enough.
I figured out all of this during a nap last Saturday. It wasn't a very restful nap, but it did put my mind at ease. Being able to articulate something, and to analyze it, means I can deal with it. And realize that most of it is in my head. I got up from the nap and told Amanda the gist of all of this (albeit in abridged form), and resolved to do a better job at not being neurotic and just accepting things (myself) the way they are.*
*Note: The irony of the fact that I'm ending this story by setting another (possibly unmeetable) expectation for myself is not lost on me...
This time, though, wasn't quite the normal drill. For one thing, I was coming off of an incredibly busy last few months, and I was exhausted and burned out. Even with the vacation as a light at the end of the tunnel, I couldn't keep up the pace. For another thing, even if I'd wanted to keep up the pace, I couldn't have. Moving is time consuming and exhausting in itself, and this move, while not exceptionally difficult, was not exceptionally easy, either. And finally, I wasn't by myself. I was hosting Amanda, and the last thing I wanted to do was be gone working all the time.
So I launched a "Just Say No" campaign at work. During the past few weeks, I turned down more work than I have since I started at the firm. No. No. I'm sorry, but NO. Not maybe. Not in a couple of days. No.
And it worked. Kind of. I didn't get the new assignments, and for the most part the senior lawyers were respectful and didn't push back. (One partner pulled the classic stunt, though: "Oh, I see, you're working 12 hour days and leaving on vacation soon? Well, if you could squeeze this in before Friday anyway, that would be great.")
But turning down new assignments is not the same as finishing the current ones -- and I still had a LOT of those. So although it could have been worse (and would have been had I not said no), the past couple of weeks have still been a challenge.
At first I thought I could do everything: Stay on top of work, entertain Amanda, finish moving into my apartment, satisfy my church callings. That daydream lasted for almost a week. By the end of a non-stop week, I was tired and frazzled and had moved into what, for me, is a very bad cycle: I set extremely high standards for myself, get over-committed, find myself falling short of my expectations, and then start berating myself brutally for every failure.
Unfortunately, that's what happened. I felt like I wasn't making enough headway at work, because I simply couldn't spend enough time working. But the more time I spent working, the less I could spend with Amanda. But the time I spent with Amanda was time not spent fulfilling my church calling. And time spent on all those other tasks prevented me from finishing my unpacking and settling into my apartment. It was one big failure fest.
A primary root of the problem was obvious: My normal life has no margins. When, from my usual perspective, things are going well, I operate at or very near 100% capacity. Which means that when unusual things happen (either for good, as with Amanda's visit; or for ill, as with the recent flooding), there is no room in my life to accommodate those things -- I necessarily tip into the overload point. And as much as I like to pretend otherwise, something always has to give.
But there was another aspect, as well; specifically, a deeply internalized feeling that my normal life is unacceptable. Working a 65-hour work-week, and then an additional 8-10 hours over the weekend, with the other week-end hours devoted to the mundane tasks of grocery shopping, exercising and sleeping, might be totally normal (and even, admittedly, generally acceptable) for me. But I always assume that it's not actually acceptable to other people. The expectation (either real or projected by me) is that I should lead a nicely balanced life, with interesting social, spiritual, intellectual and physical elements, and the judgment (either real or projected by me) is that the life that I ordinarily lead is inadequate and represents a failure on my part to prioritize appropriately and to be what I'm supposed to be. Moreover, it's a double-judgment: I'm failing because I try to do too much, and the fact that it's too much means that I'm failing at what I do, because if I was better at doing it, it wouldn't be too much. So, to have someone (in this case, Amanda) see my normal life, particularly when it's been taxed past the 100% tipping point, made me fear that all of these judgments would be realized and the failings brought to light and condemned. In short, that I would be seen as I am, and that I wouldn't be good enough.
I figured out all of this during a nap last Saturday. It wasn't a very restful nap, but it did put my mind at ease. Being able to articulate something, and to analyze it, means I can deal with it. And realize that most of it is in my head. I got up from the nap and told Amanda the gist of all of this (albeit in abridged form), and resolved to do a better job at not being neurotic and just accepting things (myself) the way they are.*
*Note: The irony of the fact that I'm ending this story by setting another (possibly unmeetable) expectation for myself is not lost on me...
Friday, June 24, 2011
You learn things when you work late...
For example, tonight I discovered that The Post locks its main entrances at night so that the only way out is through a secret entrance known only to crazy-haired old cleaning ladies (who may or may not have been the witch in Hansel and Gretel). Also, turns out the walk from The Post to the metro is favored by hookers.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Lemon Tart
Yesterday in the midst of errand-running (after the Italian store and the Lebanese store, but before the regular grocery store), Amanda and I stopped at a French pastry shop for a little pick-me-up. In honor of mon père, I got a lemon tart. (Unfortunately there was no Perrier to be had.)
Also, in anticipation of my upcoming trip to Peru, I'm testing out sending this post via email...
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Check that off the list!
Amanda got here on Wednesday, and for the next couple of days we enjoyed a sort of quasi-vacation: We ate out at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant, and a fun latino chicken restaurant. Amanda spent the days wandering the halls of the Smithsonian, and I came home early from work (8pm) and didn't check my Blackberry until the next morning. It was kind of fun.
Except that the apartment was still a mess -- which bothered me on both the aesthetic/organizational level, as well as from a hospitality perspective: I had a houseguest and was asking her to put up with a half-moved-in apartment. Amanda said she didn't mind, and had known what she was getting into when she came -- but still, it bothered me.
So one night after work (Thursday, I think) I asked Amanda what she'd think of an aggressive, errand-running weekend. She chuckled and said, Okay!
Here's what we did today:
Except that the apartment was still a mess -- which bothered me on both the aesthetic/organizational level, as well as from a hospitality perspective: I had a houseguest and was asking her to put up with a half-moved-in apartment. Amanda said she didn't mind, and had known what she was getting into when she came -- but still, it bothered me.
So one night after work (Thursday, I think) I asked Amanda what she'd think of an aggressive, errand-running weekend. She chuckled and said, Okay!
Here's what we did today:
- 3.5-mile run
- Potomac Paint Store - for paint and supplies
- Heidelberg Pastry Shop - for grilled brauenwurst, sauerkraut and German potato salad
- Home - to pick up a forgotten item
- Goodwill - to empty my trunk
- Ikea - to get a million things (some of which, unfortunately, turned out not to fit into the intended cupboard)
- J.Crew - to exchange a shirt
- Lush - to buy soap
- Levenger - to shop for a father's day present for Amanda's dad (don't worry, Will, no spoiler's here)
- Bose - to ogle a sound system that I'm trying to justify buying
- Pottery Barn - to compare the velvet drapes to the velvet drapes I got at Ikea
- Telephone consultation with Lady - to get good painting tips
- Target - to pick up whatever we didn't get at Ikea
- McDonald's - to stave off imminent death from starvation and/or dehydration
- Home Depot - to get a drill
- Harris Teeter - to top off the grocery needs before the Sabbath (turn out Amanda has a good influence on me)
- Watched an episode of Parks and Recreation - to boost morale
- Dinner at Matsutake
- Painted the living room
- Watched another episode of Parks and Recreation - because we deserved a rest
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Chitarita
I've mentioned a couple of times in earlier posts that Amanda will be staying with me for an extended visit this summer.
Since this is Amanda's first major appearance in my blog, a brief introduction is warranted: We met about 11 years ago (!!) during my first year at the University of Utah at the one and only Institute dance that I ever went to (also !!). We kept in touch periodically during my mission and then afterwards were in a number of plays together at Westminster College. We have a lot in common (moved a lot growing up, similar sibling ages, shared love of books, theater and traveling), and over the years we've become very close friends and frequent travel partners.
Which brings us to the present: We're traveling again this summer. In a few weeks Amanda and I are taking a two-week trip to Peru, in search of Macchu Pichu and other adventures. Since Amanda has more flexibility than I do during the summer months (she's a teacher), I invited her to come out a couple weeks early and hang out in DC. And she took me up on it! In fact, she gets here tomorrow and will stay until mid-July. So get ready for some summer adventures -- they're bound to be good.
In anticipation of those adventures, I recommend following Amanda's blog as well as mine. As some of you know from our experience in the Turkish baths a couple of years ago, Amanda and I sometimes have different perspectives on the same events... (and if you aren't familiar with the episode, I'd highly recommend reading it!) For a more recent example, compare my account of our Peru planning session to Amanda's account.
I'll try to figure out how to post a permanent link to Amanda's blog on mine, but until then, you can use the following URL: www.chitarita.blogspot.com
Since this is Amanda's first major appearance in my blog, a brief introduction is warranted: We met about 11 years ago (!!) during my first year at the University of Utah at the one and only Institute dance that I ever went to (also !!). We kept in touch periodically during my mission and then afterwards were in a number of plays together at Westminster College. We have a lot in common (moved a lot growing up, similar sibling ages, shared love of books, theater and traveling), and over the years we've become very close friends and frequent travel partners.
Which brings us to the present: We're traveling again this summer. In a few weeks Amanda and I are taking a two-week trip to Peru, in search of Macchu Pichu and other adventures. Since Amanda has more flexibility than I do during the summer months (she's a teacher), I invited her to come out a couple weeks early and hang out in DC. And she took me up on it! In fact, she gets here tomorrow and will stay until mid-July. So get ready for some summer adventures -- they're bound to be good.
In anticipation of those adventures, I recommend following Amanda's blog as well as mine. As some of you know from our experience in the Turkish baths a couple of years ago, Amanda and I sometimes have different perspectives on the same events... (and if you aren't familiar with the episode, I'd highly recommend reading it!) For a more recent example, compare my account of our Peru planning session to Amanda's account.
I'll try to figure out how to post a permanent link to Amanda's blog on mine, but until then, you can use the following URL: www.chitarita.blogspot.com
Moving - Part 2
We lived a little more than a mile (1.2 miles, to be exact) from the high school in La Grande, Oregon. For some reason we didn't qualify for bus service, and I wasn't always able to get a ride with Dad on his way to work. So, during those years before I got a drivers license and that rad little Datsun pickup truck, I had to walk those 1.2 miles on foot. Through snow. Uphill both ways. (I kid you not, there was a hill AND a viaduct). Carrying a bassoon. A BASSOON!! Every day, usually midway up that second hill (snow or not), I found myself ruing the day my thirteen-year-old self thought that becoming a bassoonist was a good idea. I'd try to console myself with tales of the trials and tribulations of my pioneer ancestors -- but I couldn't recall a single faith-building story involving pioneers and bassoons. Singing as they walked, yes. Abandoning mini-pianos, also yes. And even some narcolepsy. But no bassoons. Which is how I could tell that my sufferings were beyond the pale. All I could do was stand there, shaking my fist at cruel fate and wonder: Why (oh why!) had I not taken up the piccolo?
I shook my fist in a similar manner on Saturday as I lugged the 517th box of books around my new apartment. Why (oh why!) do I collect books? Why couldn't I collect something like cotton balls, instead? Of course, there was no answer to that question--other than the obvious, which is that I did not have sufficient exposure to cotton ball collectors as a child. (Thanks, parents.)
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Here I am, shaking my fist ruefully in my new apartment, and I haven't said anything about how I got from the old apartment into the new. Rewind, a few hours to Saturday morning:
I got up early on Saturday and set about finishing the remaining tasks that needed to be done before the movers arrived at 3pm. I bought some more boxes from UPS, dismantled the dining room table and desk, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, vacuumed everywhere. Then I went over and checked into my new place, which was all pristine and ready to go:
The movers showed up promptly at 3pm and loaded up the truck. The three burly ment were friendly and professional, and very good at moving things from Point A to Point B. Once they got to Point B, however, things kind of broke down. I first discovered this when I went down to the loading dock after the last load left my apartment. I had expected to find them loading in the last few items, on the verge of driving away. Instead, I found them standing in the midst of an array of my belongings, looking perplexedly into the back of the truck and wondering aloud how they were going to fit everything in. I took one look and realized that the problem had nothing to do with the quantity of things and everything to do with poor loading skills. I mean, if mon père had been loading the truck, all of my things would have been inside and there'd have been a good third of the truck left over. After a few minutes, the movers turned to me and said that I didn't need to hang around -- they'd likely need another hour or so to figure out how to get everything in. Conscious of the fact that I was paying them considerable hourly rates, I reminded them that I was only moving a block away and suggested that it might be faster for them to go unload everything and come back, rather than redo the bad loading job. Clearly, on a scale between brains and brawn, these guys were more on the brawn end...
And so I spent the next hour or so sitting on the loading dock with my stuff waiting for the movers to unload and come back. Surprisingly enough, it turned out to be an interesting hour. Some woman came by and we ended up having a lively discussion about the building and our respective flooding experiences. She was properly horrified by mine, and I was aghast at hers: Apparently a couple of months ago a pipe had burst and flooded the lowest level of the parking garage with about 4 feet of water, completely destroying this woman's brand new custom-ordered Mercedes (and every other car that had been parked on that level).
When the movers returned, they quickly picked up the rest of my things and we headed over to finish the unloading. At which point I received confirmation that these guys were really not good at handling Point B. The apartment was in complete disarray! Honestly, dizzy blind aliens couldn't have unloaded my boxes and furniture in a more random manner. Most of my book boxes were in the closet. Book cases, lamp shades, and end tables were scattered among little clusters of boxes. The movers hadn't even bothered to put the cushions back on the couch! Surely, even if the men had never heard of organization before, they might have recalled the orderliness of my original packing? Apparently not.
That's right. It was a COMPLETE DISASTER. But nothing was broken or otherwise destroyed. What a blessing. Still, it was so chaotic I could barely think straight. So I paid the movers for their time and set about imposing order. Which, let's be honest, is something I'm really good at. Especially when I know that (1) I have to go back to work in a few short hours, with no guarantee of a break at least until the following weekend, and (2) in a couple of days Amanda would arrive for a prolonged visit and really ought to be welcomed with someplace more hospitable than a stretch of cement on the balcony. By the time I went to bed Sunday night, I had made some decent progress:
There's still plenty of work to do before I get on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens (you should see the stack of boxes on the balcony!), but at least it resembles a civilized person's house (pre-tornado).
The jury's still out on what I think about the apartment itself. I knew it was going to be smaller than my last place, but it feels A LOT smaller -- to the point of feeling cramped. I'm definitely going to have to get rid of some furniture, and I'm completely mystified at how I'm going to store any amount of food in the kitchen cupboards when I can barely get my dishes to fit in them!
Also, there's the question of the wall color and lighting. I loved my last place because it felt extremely light and fresh. The walls were a cool off-white, with my bluish accent wall and floods of natural light. In this apartment, everything is yellowish. The walls are yellowish, the lighting is yellowish, the carpet is yellowish. And there isn't enough natural light to tone it down. It's alarming, actually. I can't repaint the entire apartment, so I'm going to have to see what I can do with a few of the walls. But that's a project for another day. Hopefully Amanda and I can spend some time painting after she gets here. In any event, once I get the place to a presentable state, I'll give an official tour.
I shook my fist in a similar manner on Saturday as I lugged the 517th box of books around my new apartment. Why (oh why!) do I collect books? Why couldn't I collect something like cotton balls, instead? Of course, there was no answer to that question--other than the obvious, which is that I did not have sufficient exposure to cotton ball collectors as a child. (Thanks, parents.)
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Here I am, shaking my fist ruefully in my new apartment, and I haven't said anything about how I got from the old apartment into the new. Rewind, a few hours to Saturday morning:
I got up early on Saturday and set about finishing the remaining tasks that needed to be done before the movers arrived at 3pm. I bought some more boxes from UPS, dismantled the dining room table and desk, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, vacuumed everywhere. Then I went over and checked into my new place, which was all pristine and ready to go:
 |
| Living Room |
 |
| Bedroom |
 |
| Entryway |
 |
| Kitchen |
 |
| Bathroom |
And so I spent the next hour or so sitting on the loading dock with my stuff waiting for the movers to unload and come back. Surprisingly enough, it turned out to be an interesting hour. Some woman came by and we ended up having a lively discussion about the building and our respective flooding experiences. She was properly horrified by mine, and I was aghast at hers: Apparently a couple of months ago a pipe had burst and flooded the lowest level of the parking garage with about 4 feet of water, completely destroying this woman's brand new custom-ordered Mercedes (and every other car that had been parked on that level).
When the movers returned, they quickly picked up the rest of my things and we headed over to finish the unloading. At which point I received confirmation that these guys were really not good at handling Point B. The apartment was in complete disarray! Honestly, dizzy blind aliens couldn't have unloaded my boxes and furniture in a more random manner. Most of my book boxes were in the closet. Book cases, lamp shades, and end tables were scattered among little clusters of boxes. The movers hadn't even bothered to put the cushions back on the couch! Surely, even if the men had never heard of organization before, they might have recalled the orderliness of my original packing? Apparently not.
The jury's still out on what I think about the apartment itself. I knew it was going to be smaller than my last place, but it feels A LOT smaller -- to the point of feeling cramped. I'm definitely going to have to get rid of some furniture, and I'm completely mystified at how I'm going to store any amount of food in the kitchen cupboards when I can barely get my dishes to fit in them!
Also, there's the question of the wall color and lighting. I loved my last place because it felt extremely light and fresh. The walls were a cool off-white, with my bluish accent wall and floods of natural light. In this apartment, everything is yellowish. The walls are yellowish, the lighting is yellowish, the carpet is yellowish. And there isn't enough natural light to tone it down. It's alarming, actually. I can't repaint the entire apartment, so I'm going to have to see what I can do with a few of the walls. But that's a project for another day. Hopefully Amanda and I can spend some time painting after she gets here. In any event, once I get the place to a presentable state, I'll give an official tour.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Moving Day
It's done. I'm in. New digs.
Or maybe I should say: New digs. I'm kind of in. It's only just begun.
I'll write more and post some photos. But for now, I need to sleep. More than anything else. Sleep.
Or maybe I should say: New digs. I'm kind of in. It's only just begun.
I'll write more and post some photos. But for now, I need to sleep. More than anything else. Sleep.
Friday, June 3, 2011
300
The number of hours I billed during the month of May. New all-time high for me. That translates into approximately $116,000 for the firm (assuming they billed me out at my normal rate). I sure hope the bonus committee is paying attention. Sigh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)