I’m moving in 15 days and I’m a little worried about how not anxious I am about it.
Arrangements have been made: we have a fantastic moving company lined up, as well as reusable moving boxes that will be delivered next week and picked up at the new place two weeks thereafter. I’ve got time booked off from work, and just enough bath bombs to last the duration of my stay at the old apartment. Although the big work has yet to be done, we’re pretty well sorted.
The packing and the cleaning have to wait, but I still feel like I should be doing something to prepare. There’s also the fact that I know very little about living in a floating home. That’s part of the appeal, of course! I’ve longed to be closer to the water all my life, and soon I’ll be as close to it as I can reasonably get. Oceanfront, my ass! Ocean on!
I longed to live in the city for most of my childhood; I think that’s a natural result of being transplanted from the Lower Mainland (if you’re not from around here, that roughly translates to “Vancouver”) to the middle of the woods at the age of nine. Suffice it to say, the roots didn’t take, and I obsessed over getting back to Vancouver, and 10 years ago I finally did it for real. And now, the concept of trading the hundreds (or thousands; I have no brain for spatial mathematics) of eclectic neighbours for a marina where there are exactly four other households while being a mere bridge crossing away from me beloved East Van is all manner of attractive. I can’t figure out what the catch will be. There’s got to be one, and I can’t think of one, and all my googling has come up with nothing.
Will there be big weird spiders that can talk? Or maybe all floating houses are secretly haunted by angry mermaids? I won’t know for an entire fortnight.