We’ve been in our new home for a few days now. We’re still totally surrounded by boxes, and are exhausted every evening; but we’re making progress
– I’ve rarely been as spent as I was, or as sore, as I was after the two days of the actual move. Clearly, I am older than when I last did this.
– max laid spread-eagle on the floor of his empty room for 45 minutes before we finally left (he said he was talking to the house, telling it how much it had meant to him). When I went to get him to leave, he cried, and did not want to go.
– we spent a few hours in ikea, buying dressers for the kids, barstools for the kitchen counter, and a few other bits (I have a love/hate relationship with ikea and its maze of brilliant marketing). That evening, max and I spent almost three hours assembling his dresser, only to find we’d made a small mistake early on. The next morning, I had to partially disassemble it to correct the problem. Subsequently, I assembled two dressers for liesl, and two barstools. My fingers and back are cramping, and my love/hate for ikea has fully shifted to “loathe” for the time being.
– after driving around the little village area near our new home, max said, “I think I’m going to really like this place.”
– we found an amazing gelato place within walking distance of our home.
– my friend john stopped by with pizzas on our first evening. Then he and I inaugurated the patio of the granny flat with cuban cigars.
– we have an ongoing discussion about naming the granny flat/guest house. After several possibilties that didn’t stick, we’re vascillating between “guff” (a phonetic pronunciation of GF, for granny flat, as well as the marshmallowy goodness they put on ice cream cones in denmark; or “frank’s place”: we have a statue of st. francis I hauled back from guatemala a year ago in the backyard, facing the flat. Frances = frank. I’m lobbying for this one.