Everyone knows the Swiss are famous for their impeccable timing, everything from watches to trains, but I gotta tell you, receiving word that my metal container would arrive four weeks ahead of schedule, well, all I can say is I’m thinking about having the Swiss flag tattooed across my face.
All my worldly goods landed on Friday and I was one happy camper, happy to stop living like a camper that is. I’d been eating on paper plates for three weeks and, the shame of it all, drinking wine from plastic cups. Of course the giddiness was short lived. Soon after greeting the moving truck with cartwheels and backflips, I had this to face…
Masochism is the only word suited for someone who moves as much as I do. My fingers are raw from tape and boxes, my back is like a pretzel from hauling and dragging, and my arse is expanding by the minute as my husband’s back in the kitchen where he belongs. Some men live for hockey gear, mine comes alive at the sight of a set of cast iron frying pans and non-stick bakeware.
I will say that this was the smoothest move we’ve ever had and I am très contente to be reunited with my little treasures— drawings I picked up in Cortona years ago, paintings from Nova Scotia, an ancient dining table from a little shop in Burgundy, yadda yadda. By now I’ve paid far more to move my crap around the world than it’s actually worth, something to reflect on for sure.
But really, can you put a value on a house full of things that remind you of a journey that seems priceless? You certainly can, the moment the moving guy hands you a bill for 10,000 Swiss francs. So, to my new landlord, kiss your apartment good-bye. I’m staying. Forever. God can laugh all she wants.