As you might have gathered from Trisha's recent and brief blog post, our move to London has not been without it's obstacles.
last week was a tough one. The obvious cliche (given our surroundings) would be "when it rains it pours". I cant say that any single event of the last week was truly "soul-crushing" (except for maybe one), but it was just one of those weeks where nothing seemed to turn out as planned. Each day seemed like a small exercise in patience. I'll give you some of the lowlights...
Monday was meant to be something of a turning point for us here. It was supposed to be the first day we could move into our new flat. Trisha and I were both anxious to finally unpack and start getting settled into our new home.
Our friend Anthony was kind enough to drive us (along with most of our suitcases and stuff) into the city. We dropped Trisha off at her work and promptly ran into the first little challenge for the week.
(Packed up)
There had been a mis-communication with the lending office that managed our flat and our move-in day wasn't until Tuesday. Luckily we were able to drop off our stuff, but Trisha and I suddenly had no where to sleep that night.
Another problem arose when Anthony and I went to drop off our luggage: a problem of furniture. The previous tenant had told us he was leaving a couch and bed behind. No such luck. What he ended up leaving was two bed frames. One of which was unusable as it was missing the part of the frame that would actually support a mattress.
So Anthony graciously ended up shuttling me around to a couple of furniture places, including the Disneyland of home stores: Ikea. It was actually a stroke of luck that Anthony was able to help us out since there was one other major obstacle to contend with on that day: the tube strike.
The tubes basically shut down or ran very poorly from Monday night through Tuesday the next night. It was just an extra level of difficulty that seemed, sorta unnecessary.
Monday night we ended up staying in this very eclectic B&B near our flat which was actually pretty fun. Our room was basically a converted living room and full of antiques and nick-knacks. Breakfast was particularly enjoyable because I was able to visit with some fellow guests (a couple from Berlin).
(our bedroom at the B&B):
So Monday wasn't a great start but it wasn't back-breaking either.
Tuesday I walked over to the lending office to pick up our new keys. I noticed with particular annoyance that the flat seemed untouched since the previous morning when we were told we couldn't move in.
Tuesday also meant another trip to Ikea with what was now a rather large list of things we needed to get started. Without access to a truck I needed to arrange for delivery. I made sure to check and see if the delivery men would actually take all this stuff up the stairs for me....or at least help me do it. The man at the Ikea said it would be "no problem" (remember that phrase) and that the two-man team would certainly bring everything upstairs into our flat.
This was of critical importance. I knew I would be by myself when the furniture showed up, and amongst my purchases was a whole couch (a small couch...but a couch none-the-less).
"No Problem", The guy assured me.
Wednesday (after a night on our new "emergency air mattress") two strapping and healthy young men showed up with our furniture and happily set about unloading all our purchases to the landing on the first floor. Box after box. One dresser (ground floor), Two dressers (ground floor), dinning room table (ground floor), desk (ground floor), etc etc.
At about the same time that they pulled out the mattress I said, "uh..hey guys...you're gonna carry all this stuff up to my flat right?"
"No no...Ground floor delivery only." They said, very matter-of-fact.
I told them about my conversation with the gentleman at the Ikea store -- The guy who had said, "no problem".
They just sorta shrugged and started to unload my sofa to the ground floor.
"look guys" I said, now trying to appeal to their sense of decency, "Its just me here. I don't really know anyone who can come help me. You don't have to help me with the rest of this stuff but I really don't think I can get this mattress or this couch up the stairs on my own."
Reluctantly they agreed to do (some) of what I had actually paid for in the first place. They grumpily managed to get the mattress up into the bedroom, but the couch was another matter. After the first flight of stairs we were struggling to get it around the first corner. A few minutes later they gave up.
"It wont fit" one said with a half-way shrug and started to walk back down the stairs.
"wait wait!" I said, "look...this doesn't fit because of all this cardboard and plastic packaging. If we take this stuff off it will totally fit." No dice. These two, strong, "professional" movers, had declared that the couch was two big and it was impossible to move.
They left me there. Alone, with a couch wedged diagonally in my hallway.
It's at this point where the details go a little hazy for me. All I could think about was how badly Trisha wanted this thing to be ready. I kinda felt like this couch was something of a birthright. Like it was some family heirloom past down from Swedish forefathers long since gone from this earth. This couch was MINE, and I knew where it belonged. It belonged up those stairs.
Somehow I moved that couch up the other two flights of stairs all by myself. I remember there was a lot of grunting, and sweating, and climbing over railings while trying to keep the thing from sliding backwards or tipping over. I don't remember how long it took me but I finally got that couch into our living room.
Then of course I had to lug all that other furniture up the stairs.
(Trisha enjoys her new couch)
So that day could have gone a little better.
After the couch and other furniture was actually in the flat, I had to put it all together. I'll go ahead and say this isn't the worst thing that could happen, but it wasn't a happy-fun task either. It was a couple days worth of tedious work. My delicate and pampered body doesn't hold up well to such endeavors. On the other hand, I HAD been growing a fairly shabby beard, so I had some manly-man powers stowed away in my scraggly facial hair to help see me through.
One thing in the back of my mind during these couple days of setting up our new life in London, was that there was a brand new computer...pristine and untouched...waiting for me in the boxes over in the corner of the room.
My new computer. The one I've "needed" for about a year now since my last computer died. My new computer that was part birthday gift, part bonus purchase. Bought in America about a month before we left and shipped at great cost to Marlow, and then transported via automobile to London.
This was to be my reward for all this work. All these trials lead to this one grail-like object.
Finally the time had come to unleash the new machine and take it for a test drive. With trembling hands I opened the boxes, and plunged my fingers into the great mass of pink shipping popcorn, pulled back, and revealed a sparkling tower with the words
"dell"
Emblazoned upon it.
I set up my monitor. My keyboard. My mouse. Keyboard wire to tower. Mouse wire to tower. Monitor wire to tower. Monitor to surge protector. Tower to surge protector.
Surge protector to wall...
POP!
Such was the life of my computer. It died before it could even live. It was slain by the extra 130 volts that United Kingdom tried to force upon it, and by my own careless stupidity for failing to realize that there was a switch I needed to flip in order to make it ready to accept that voltage.
I thought back to when I asked the dell salesman about my new computer and whether or not it would work in the UK. he told me that it would.
He said, "No problem".
(the monitor is all that remains)
The loss of the computer, on its own, was not a terrible thing. No one died. no one got sick. Trisha still has a job. We're still getting married. Our life is very good.
I wish I could say that I rose above the crushing disappointment I felt as I kept flipping the power switch on my computer -- much the same way that the TV doctors continue to practice CPR on a patient whose long since expired.
But I think it was the strain of the whole week. The way every small thing seemed to give us more trouble than we expected. I also think it was a bit of the creeping isolation that we had both started to feel as a result of being away from our friends and families for so long. I think it was all the things that I've had no trouble coping with so far that suddenly weighed very heavily on me.
Or maybe it was just my blatant and repulsive materialism.
Whatever it was, I was very. Very. Sad.
It wasn't till Friday night that I really started to feel better. One thing that helped was that I finally made it to the Heath to take a little jog around the park. The Heath is one of the many parks in London, and this one happens to be about a 2 minute walk from my doorstep. The park itself is beautiful and wild, with tremendous panoramic views of the city below. Did I mention its basically right out my front door?
We also ran into our lending agent that night over at the local pub (
The Garden Gate). Trisha and I keep trying to take him out for a drink to thank him for his help. He kept accepting and then blowing us off. I don't think he likes us, BUT he did sit and drink with us on Friday.
We were joined by 3 or 4 of his friends and it felt so great to just sit around, laughing and chatting with a group of friendly people. It really helped to make us feel at home.
(The Garden Gate)
(The Heath)
(View from the Heath)
(A Heath pic for my phone's wallpaper)
- chips
