Life in the Windy City: Moving Out, Moving In
Although finally found an apartment and I’m now nicely settled, with a new address and phone number and high-speed internet access, I didn’t simply click my heels together three times and wake up in my bed in Chicago. I had much help in packing, moving, and then unpacking (twice—more on that later) my stuff. I want to thank—again—the friends in Lansing who showed up Saturday morning to help move boxes, chairs, a desk, a couch, and a massively-large entertainment center. Tom, Eric, George, Bill: what would have taken almost half a day by myself only took a few sweaty hours with your help. Thanks again.
I would also be remiss if I failed to mention that my father did about half of my packing for me. I had made a decent start on putting stuff in boxes, but time was running out, and I had made plans to visit my friend John (aka Janko—that’s YAN-ko) in Flint Friday evening before the big move on Saturday. Luckily, on my last pass through Paw Paw, I picked up Dad so he could come to Lansing and drive my car to Chicago. When I went to Flint, he stayed in Lansing to pack my kitchen, my living room, and anything else I hadn’t already stashed in a box. Thanks, Pops.
So we packed the 24-foot rental truck on Saturday morning, I took the guys out to lunch, and then Dad and I headed to Paw Paw. I planned on storing things like my couch and that massively-large entertainment center in my folks’ extra garage. There was no way all of the junk I had accumulated over the years was going to fit in my Chicago studio. The trip to Paw Paw was uneventful, if a little slow: I couldn’t get the truck to go any faster than 55 miles per hour. I figured the engine had a governor in it, for insurance reasons. It wasn’t until the next day, when Dad drove the truck on the first leg of the Paw Paw-to-Chicago journey, that I realized how essential overdrive was to getting the truck to go faster. What did I know? My Saturn is a stick. I’m used to shifting gears all the time. But when I get in an automatic, I expect that putting the damn thing in “drive” should pretty much take care of everything. Well, now I know. At least I was reasonably sure the Budget truck wasn’t going to break down on me like the last U-Haul truck I rented five years ago (the clutch burned out, stranding me in the left-turn lane of a busy Lansing street for over two hours while I waited for a tow).
Once in Paw Paw (which is about 20 miles west of Kalamazoo, in case you were wondering) Dad and I unloaded at least half—if not more—of the stuff the guys loaded on the truck in Lansing. I have always been a bit of a pack rat, and I knew I was moving into a small apartment: I took up a whole corner of the garage with my stuff.
“You see how I stacked your boxes and things so you can easily take stuff out?” Dad asked. “And not put anything else in?” he added with a grin. Don’t worry, Dad. I don’t have enough room in the new place to accumulate anything. It’s so small I feel kind of like a dog in a crate: I can’t make a mess, or I’ll have to live in it all the time.
We completed the move to Chicago on Sunday, August 15. I drove the second leg of the trip, from Indiana to Chicago. It’s a good thing I took note that the truck required a clearance of at least 13 feet 6 inches: I never realized how many low-hanging overpasses there are in Chicago. The L tracks near my place were just high enough—13 feet, 6 inches—to allow me and the truck through.
Unloading took about an hour. I had much less to unload than I had to load, and my brother-in-law drove out from Aurora (“The Land of Wayne & Garth”) to help. During the unloading, while I was commenting on the proximity of my new place to DePaul, the L, a Blockbuster, several movie theaters, and such, Chris casually said “Have I mentioned lately how much I hate you?” with that tell-tale dry tone and faux-exasperation that told me he was making the kind of joke based on the slightest shred of reality.
“Because I’m close to the L?” The elevated is cool, but hardly envy-worthy.
“That. And DePaul, and Blockbuster and two miles from Wrigley Field . . . just the whole ‘living in the city thing.’”
And then I remembered: when I had first told Chris that I was moving to Chicago, he had commented how everyone in his suburban high school had dreamed of moving into the city after graduation. Chris went to a suburban college, met my sister, got married, and had two kids. It’s a good life, but it’s not city life.
So: the coolest thing about moving to Chicago? Brother-in-law envy.
We were moving more boxes. “So, Chris, how far away is Wrigley Field, again?”
“Two words. Seven letters.”
Yes, living in the city is going to be fun.
I would also be remiss if I failed to mention that my father did about half of my packing for me. I had made a decent start on putting stuff in boxes, but time was running out, and I had made plans to visit my friend John (aka Janko—that’s YAN-ko) in Flint Friday evening before the big move on Saturday. Luckily, on my last pass through Paw Paw, I picked up Dad so he could come to Lansing and drive my car to Chicago. When I went to Flint, he stayed in Lansing to pack my kitchen, my living room, and anything else I hadn’t already stashed in a box. Thanks, Pops.
So we packed the 24-foot rental truck on Saturday morning, I took the guys out to lunch, and then Dad and I headed to Paw Paw. I planned on storing things like my couch and that massively-large entertainment center in my folks’ extra garage. There was no way all of the junk I had accumulated over the years was going to fit in my Chicago studio. The trip to Paw Paw was uneventful, if a little slow: I couldn’t get the truck to go any faster than 55 miles per hour. I figured the engine had a governor in it, for insurance reasons. It wasn’t until the next day, when Dad drove the truck on the first leg of the Paw Paw-to-Chicago journey, that I realized how essential overdrive was to getting the truck to go faster. What did I know? My Saturn is a stick. I’m used to shifting gears all the time. But when I get in an automatic, I expect that putting the damn thing in “drive” should pretty much take care of everything. Well, now I know. At least I was reasonably sure the Budget truck wasn’t going to break down on me like the last U-Haul truck I rented five years ago (the clutch burned out, stranding me in the left-turn lane of a busy Lansing street for over two hours while I waited for a tow).
Once in Paw Paw (which is about 20 miles west of Kalamazoo, in case you were wondering) Dad and I unloaded at least half—if not more—of the stuff the guys loaded on the truck in Lansing. I have always been a bit of a pack rat, and I knew I was moving into a small apartment: I took up a whole corner of the garage with my stuff.
“You see how I stacked your boxes and things so you can easily take stuff out?” Dad asked. “And not put anything else in?” he added with a grin. Don’t worry, Dad. I don’t have enough room in the new place to accumulate anything. It’s so small I feel kind of like a dog in a crate: I can’t make a mess, or I’ll have to live in it all the time.
We completed the move to Chicago on Sunday, August 15. I drove the second leg of the trip, from Indiana to Chicago. It’s a good thing I took note that the truck required a clearance of at least 13 feet 6 inches: I never realized how many low-hanging overpasses there are in Chicago. The L tracks near my place were just high enough—13 feet, 6 inches—to allow me and the truck through.
Unloading took about an hour. I had much less to unload than I had to load, and my brother-in-law drove out from Aurora (“The Land of Wayne & Garth”) to help. During the unloading, while I was commenting on the proximity of my new place to DePaul, the L, a Blockbuster, several movie theaters, and such, Chris casually said “Have I mentioned lately how much I hate you?” with that tell-tale dry tone and faux-exasperation that told me he was making the kind of joke based on the slightest shred of reality.
“Because I’m close to the L?” The elevated is cool, but hardly envy-worthy.
“That. And DePaul, and Blockbuster and two miles from Wrigley Field . . . just the whole ‘living in the city thing.’”
And then I remembered: when I had first told Chris that I was moving to Chicago, he had commented how everyone in his suburban high school had dreamed of moving into the city after graduation. Chris went to a suburban college, met my sister, got married, and had two kids. It’s a good life, but it’s not city life.
So: the coolest thing about moving to Chicago? Brother-in-law envy.
We were moving more boxes. “So, Chris, how far away is Wrigley Field, again?”
“Two words. Seven letters.”
Yes, living in the city is going to be fun.
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4:32 PM
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