Moving On and Moving In

Well, the maybe apartment is now ours, making it the definite apartment - although I think we're going to stick with 'maybe apartment'. I like the way it sounds. The maybe apartment in Murray Hill. Nice.

So this Sunday we move in and slowly start to make it ours. Well, ours and Ikeas. How did anyone on a limited budget furnish a place before Ikea came to be? I remember when I was little, we had this three piece lounge set that (sorry, Mum, Dad, and Grandma) could really only be described as absolutely disgusting. It was a weird goldy yellow colour, and was kind of...full of itself looking, inasmuch as a lounge set can be. Funny thing is I'm pretty sure everyone's going to be able to imagine it perfectly from that description, even if nobody else has ever thought of a sofa that way. There is genuinely no better way to depict it. Anyway, the reason we had this is because my parents were quite young and moderately poor when they married, and so Grandma and Granddad helped them out by giving them this lounge set. Although I don't know if 'help' is the right verb here. Encourage works better. As in 'encouraged' them to work very hard so they could buy a new one as soon as humanly possible.

I'm being unfair. This was during the late '70s and early to mid '80s, and for all I know, that three piece set was the envy of all their friends. It died a sad death in the late '80s, thanks to an awesome game that my brothers and I used to play, where we would run from one end of the hall to the other at top speed, before flipping over the arm of the couch onto the seats. We were three skinny kids, but we still managed to break those springs pretty irreparably. We were told off, of course, but rather half-heartedly. I think it would have been a much more...decisive telling off if it had been a nice sofa, say. Or any other sofa in the world, actually.

Anyway, my point was that Ikea didn't exist back then, but now, happily, it does, so H1 and I could go and spend lots of money there the other day (I should qualify that - lots of money for Ikea. Not for pretty much anything else) and organise all our nice new stuff to be delivered to our nice new maybe apartment this Sunday. It was the best Ikea trip I've ever had (and I've had two now) thanks to the fact that it's in Brooklyn and the easiest way of getting there is by water taxi (easily the best type of taxi). It wasn't too crowded. We found everything we wanted, even though we had to pinch a couple of bowls from a display because they didn't have enough in the 'marketplace', and H1 tested every bed on display by jumping in. And every time someone laughed. As if nobody else ever does that. Which obviously is just not the case.

This is, surprisingly, about the full extent of the shopping I've done in New York to date (excluding, of course, the daily assault of the grocery store). The only other things I've bought that I can think of are an umbrella (when it rains here, it rains with intent. Drizzle is not a word invented by New Yorkers) and a vegetable peeler (I'm a little embarrassed by how much I like it, actually). I've gone near shops, and even into some shops, but haven't really felt any need to buy anything, for a few reasons. Our current stuff is everywhere in the corporate apartment of doom, and I'm loath to add to it. The only things I've seen so far that I really truly love are a pair of highly impractical shoes, which usually would be on my feet by now, but common sense won out (hello, ageing! How are you?) and an autumn weight coat. It's 32 degrees every day, and will be for the next month and a half, I hear. I can't fathom ever needing a coat again. The final reason is that in the list of things I will never do, ever, standing in line to shop comes top. There is nothing I want so badly that I will stand in a ten metre long queue to own it (you hear me, Abercrombie & Fitch and Apple on Fifth Avenue?) Other people in New York will. Quite frankly, I don't understand the mentality of those who will. It disturbs me on the same level that sales disturb me on (I have nothing against discounts, but I have lots against queuing, pushing, shoving, and mess. Why do sales always have to be messy?)

And while discussing the mess thing, onto a much more positive note. I lied when listing earlier what I had bought, as (this is exciting) H1 and I also bought some coathangers (ok, not that, bear with me) from this fantastic place we discovered (although I don't think it's a secret) The Container Store.

Ta-dah.

For two people who aren't greatly enamoured of mess, The Container Store is the greatest store on earth. We could have spent hours in there. All we bought were the hangers, but we had great fun wandering the two (two!) levels, imagining exactly how we could kit out the maybe apartment so it is wonderfully, totally organised. It was blissful. I can't even portray the general fabulousness of The Container Store.

Oh hey, ageing, you just keep showing up, don't you?

I might think about queuing to get into The Container Store. Luckily, I don't think I'm going to be tested on that anytime soon. It's not a tourist hotspot.

Yet.

Like Walking Through a Minefield

And there you are - a highly insensitive and, for the most part, incorrect title for you. I have no experience of walking through minefields. I've never been to a developing country (unless Thailand counts, although I'm pretty sure it doesn't, and the way I holidayed in Thailand certainly doesn't) or anywhere ravaged by war, and even if I had, I don't think I could begin to comprehend what it would truly be like.

But this isn't about my travelling failures, this is about my failures to be a New Yorker, by way of an incredibly hyperbolic simile. They are only minor failures, to be fair, and it is all a learning curve - but YEGADS, I am exhausted just from trying to assemble a life in this madcap city. Every day I fall down onto the sofa, mind and feet pounding from the constant mental and physical running around that is currently necessary, and try to relax - a near impossible feat, seeing as we are still in the soul-sucking environs of the dreaded corporate apartment (it's actually not that bad, it just pales in comparison to our maybe apartment).

Yes, the maybe apartment is still a maybe, it's virtually a sure thing but I'm not counting my chickens until they're hatched, despite having paid over the better part of a house deposit (an Auckland house deposit that is, further down south you could buy a small town for that same sum) and several body parts to secure said fowl (hmmm, analogy getting out of hand?). We've even signed a lease (I say that so flippantly, as if it were no big deal, but trust me, if Tolstoy were still alive and writing this lease agreement would be his follow up to War and Peace. When the man who took our money (I'm not sure of his actual job description, renting an apartment in New York involves a long, long chain of people) put it down on the table, the entire room shook. And this was a well constructed room, not a cardboard/MDF knock up like our previous apartment) but still, the apartment is not definitely ours. ARGGGHHHH.

My yoga-style breathing is getting more and more of a look in these days.

Actually, it would all be fine if everything else wasn't so convoluted and difficult. A simple supermarket trip to pick up some dinner can take me hours, as I trawl the aisles, looking for something - anything! - even slightly familiar, and reading the back of countless packets to ensure I'm not eating anything too odd. And yes, also because I sometimes stop and laugh at some of the less obvious combinations considered acceptable, decent foodstuffs, like Chocolate Chip Cookie Crunch breakfast cereal (I'm not making this up, I promise). Nothing seems to be called the same thing here, even vegetables (in the supermarket around the corner, a sweet potato is a yam, a capsicum is a bell pepper, which is grouped with an extensive range of hot peppers that look the same, so utmost caution is required, and a courgette - which I always thought was a zucchini in America - goes by the total misnomer of English Cucumber (yes, capitalised). I'm not sure what Americans think goes into cucumber sandwiches or Pimms, but it does seem worth finding out).

Take a simple, if lengthy, shopping trip and add H1, and you're doubling the time, the remainder of which is spent repeatedly telling him to put back the Chocolate Chip Cookie Crunch cereal, and find some muesli (granola). If we work up the energy to go to the gym, we spend equal amounts of time working out and just standing beside machines, eyeballing them with shifty glances, trying to work out what they do and how you make them go. There are many, many more machines in our local gym than we have ever seen in a gym before.

This must be what it's like for people from the deepest, darkest corners of the south who move to New York. In fact, New Yorkers probably see us casting worried looks at gym machines and vegetables and think we are from the deep south. Our accents would only confirm it (not a whole lot of New Zealanders in this city, I must say. It's not a recognised accent).

Buying lunch is a challenge. Eating lunch is a challenge (such big meals - it's a stereotype for good reason). Tipping is a challenge. OH don't get me started on the tipping. Our terror of looking cheap battles with our desire not to end up bankrupt every single day. I keep a stash of ones in my purse, which I tend to burn through frighteningly quickly, frantically peeling them off and thrusting them in the startled face of pretty much anyone who crosses my path.

I don't remember ever feeling this clueless in London. I probably was, but with the naivety of youth, just didn't realise it. It actually weirdly helped that London's not known for its friendliness - I just went with the flow and if I was doing the wrong thing, people would ignore it, and me. Or they would tsk me. Either way, it wasn't at all hard to deal with, and I did, with a smile on my face.

And there's one of the cruxes of the problem (yes, it's a multi-cruxed problem). Used to be I was too nice. Here I am just not quite nice enough. Until I pull the ones out of my purse.

Moving to New York

...'cos I got issues with my sleep...(The Wombats).

Or I did, anyway. The sleep issues are getting better. Jet lag is fading and normal hours are resuming. Was very glad to manage to stay up till the highly reasonable hour of 10 last night, and to wake up at 6:45 this morning, not pinging awake bright and early because my body thought it was nearly midday, but waking in a slow, resentful, craving-more-sleep manner due to H1 waking beside me. He's not jetlagged at all. He just wakes up that early - usually even earlier, actually - because he is a strange, strange man.

So five days in and well...all is going well. Not a lot to report. We've been very busy, throwing ourselves into the vibrant city life, making the most of being young in New York, venturing around town and partying on until 9pm, when we fall asleep wherever we happen to be. H1 is working a lot, already, because that is the type of person he is. I have been mainly concentrating on finding us a home, because that is the person I am. The type who likes a roof over her head. A place to call my own. Land is the most important thing, and when I've found my Tara, I'll...

Sorry, another Scarlett O'Hara moment. They occur fairly regularly, but I may have to reduce that frequency here in New York, a city in America where real Southerners visit and sometimes even live. They look at me in alarm when I use my Scarlett O'Hara voice, and more often than not gently enquire whether I'm ok.

So yes, a place of our own, that's not Tara. Important. This corporate apartment is fine, but you know, corporate. A little soul-less. And alarmingly big, with very little furniture. H1 and I rattle around in it, feeling guilty if we leave papers lying on the table and startling each other when we walk into a room. We're not used to so much space. It unsettles us and makes us edgy.

It's also only ours until the beginning of August, which is a relief because of the aforementioned size issue and the kitchen, which is a good size in a horrible location on the wrong side of the apartment, totally isolated and dark. It is not designed for cooking. It positively sneers at cooking. Cooking in there makes you feel like you've been sent to prison. And there is very little to cook with, so we are hoping that the short term lease ends before one of us ends up throwing a plate against a wall, shouting, 'Not bloody pasta, again!' We're not big on shouting. Also, it would halve our supply of plates.

We may have found a place - we are hopeful that we have - but I refuse to say any more in case I jinx it. I'm not usually superstitious, but if anything's going to make one superstitious, it's the Manhattan rental market. Suffice to say I like it a lot, probably more now that I know someone else has their beady, greedy eyes on it. I don't wish harm on strangers...but. I want it. So I hope they find another place that they want more. Or that they are in a minor accident, not hurt at all, but end up losing their short term memory. Something, anything, whatever the powers that be see fit.

Anyway, it's nearly 9:30, and my body knows it. Head is nodding, eyes keep closing, 'z's are issuing from my mouth in a comic script. More on New York shortly (actual New York, not my apartment. I don't even have an apartment yet, and already I'm spending all my time there, if only in my head. Cause for concern?) Night night.

Time for a Different Dish

For someone who likes her routines and her life just so, I've been doing a lot of different things over the last couple of weeks. Getting up really early. Minimising my stuff. Making countless lists, even more than I usually do. And going out - a LOT.

It's all in aid of something, something pretty exciting (has to be to get me out of bed at such unreasonable hours, really). Condiments on a City Life is changing and going places - New York, to be exact. Oh, and so am I.

Yes, that's right, New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice (H1 keeps demanding that I stop saying that, but I don't think this counts*). The Big Apple. Ummmm...other cliches, and so on.

I'm very excited, in a highly surreal way. To be honest, stress trumps excitement at this very point. This very morning we sent ten large boxes of our stuff away with some man - I'm going to hope he's from the shipping company - yet still, there is stuff everywhere. EVERYWHERE. The whole 'minimise your stuff' plan has failed miserably. I've thrown out a lot of stuff I've since discovered I need, sent a whole lot of other stuff away with some random man, and yes, have since discovered I need it, and have a whole lot of stuff sitting around my house, mirroring my confused, bewildered state, looking sad and forlorn without the other stuff giving it context. Those people who sell everything, give all the money to charity, then live in a forest for a year before writing a book about it? They're no more altruistic or worthy than you and I. They just tried to move countries, decided it was too hard, and gave up.

It's quite funny how difficult it is, actually, in a 'I'll laugh at that when I remember how to laugh' way. Last time I moved countries I threw some stuff I liked in an oversized backpack, threw the stuff I liked less in some boxes, then flippantly waved a hand towards the boxes and my cat** as I wandered out the door with my giant backpack, saying to my parents, "You'll look after that, won't you? Oh, and can I have a lift to the airport?"

This time it's like a military operation, if the military was disorganised, shambolic, and confused (hold your sardonic comments, please. We're off to the States, there's no place for them there). The problem is that there is nobody to leave anything with, because my parents have selfishly remained in their home country, rather than following me round the world so they can look after anything I no longer have space for. So everything goes.

As an aside, I've realised what separates us from the animals. It's not opposable thumbs. It's stuff. The reason we maintain such long, close relationships with family is because we have stuff, and sometimes we need to leave that stuff somewhere, with someone else. This is why parents exist.

And I KNOW I sound like a spoilt brat. I'm always conscious of that, but because I'm always in a hurry these days, and at any given moment seventeen different things I need to do are popping into my head, I have had to polish a non-spoilt, fully explanatory, detailed answer to the question, "New York? Wow. Aren't you excited?" As the 'ed' of excited is still rolling off their tongue, I launch into, "OhyesofcoursesoexcitedterriblyluckyNewYorkimaginestilllotstodoofcoursemustgetonbye!" and then disappear before their eyes. It works well. And is true - I am excited, and awfully lucky. I'm just aware that I'm going to be more excited when all this stuff is sorted.

Still - New York. Wow. Imagine how much my life's going to change. Imagine all the exciting new things I'm going to do, all the exciting new people I'm going to meet, all the exciting new places I'm going to see...on the way from JFK to my new apartment, because when I get there, I'm just going to crawl into a dark corner and catch up on everything I've been neglecting these last few weeks. H1. Eating. Breathing. Stuff like that.

So that's it. Bye London***.

*I checked. It does. Oh well.

**I'm not heartless. I really like my cat, I just don't want her corrupted by the big city.

***SOB - bye London, Fulham, the river, the green shop, the weird sex shop next door (still going!) Bye gelato shop, I'm really sorry you and I didn't get more acquainted. Bye homeless men in the park, the park itself, the yummy mummies. Bye unnamed generic coffee shop on Fulham Road (still not sponsoring me, humph). Bye.