The movers have come and gone and now my apartment is empty, empty, empty: more empty than the day I moved in. Now the stress of the move has crystallized into something else. I spent all of last week getting ready for today: packing all of my earthly possessions into relaitvely flimsy cardboard and hoping for the best. Over the next three weeks, I will be without my stuff. It's going to be really, really weird, but I expect it to go okay. My belongings are all on their way to Las Vegas, where they will wait to be transported to my new home in Tallahassee. Hopefully they don't lose their shirt in Vegas. Oh yeah, and the moving took forever. The guys were here from 1:00p until around 5:00p and I almost went stir-crazy.
Funniest anecdote from today:
The foreman of the move was named Yaron and he was Armenian or Persian or something and the two guys helping him were both obviously native Spanish-speakers. So very early on in the move I'm sitting on the floor observing them all and Yaron tells one of the men that he wants him to go back down to the truck and bring up twenty more blankets. He's holding up two fingers and he keeps saying "twenty," but this guy has no clue what he's talking about and just keeps looking at him. Yaron is saying, "Not two; twenty" and keeps saying "twenty" as though if he repeats it it will become clearer to the man. Eventually I pipe up from the floor, "Veinte." The man repeats it, "Veinte" and I say "Sí" and he went about his business.
Later on they lost my key and I had to speak even more Spanish to this guy. My language skills weren't put to the test too much, though, as all that appeared to be required was "No lo tengo."
I'm feeling sort of alone, now, without all of my things. It's weird, and there's nowhere comfortable to sit.
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