As I'm slowly getting settled in Virginia, (almost all the boxes are gone now! left are only the things I can't find a place for and need help with) I have started actually leaving the apartment and exploring my new area. We've had a series of absolutely gorgeous spring/early summer days lately, which has really helped! I was walking around the other day, and I noticed a few things that struck me as very strange. People--strangers off the street-- talk to you here, and not to yell at you to get out of the way. I have been in New York so long, that I'd forgotten that people did that!
I went for a long walk on Wednesday, down to the waterfront. I brought a book and my plan was to get coffee and read for awhile, maybe get some lunch, and walk back home. On the way, I remembered I was on my last pair of contacts, and decided to stop in at the optometrist on King Street. Ok, new thing I love about Virginia-- the optometrist actually took the time to listen to me! And together, we figured out what was wrong with my eyes during allergy season! She gave me some super cool, extra comfortable contacts that I'm very happy with so far. As I was walking home, this lady crossed the street, and said "Oh, it got cool today, didn't it?"
Not an earth-shattering conversation, mind you. But for someone who spends most of the day with a cat, it was nice. Then I started thinking-- when was the last time someone talked to me on the street, not to yell at me to get out of the way? It's been....awhile!
Yesterday, I decided to once again walk into Old Town and explore a bit. With a bit of a purpose-- there are 80,000 hair salons in Old Town, and I need a haircut, so I figured I'd walk around, pick up some coupons and menus and such and pick a place to cut my hair. I stopped at a coffee shop for a cappuccino on the way, and lo and behold, I sneezed. It is allergy season, after all. The attendants and patrons not only God blessed me, we also then all got into a conversation about how horrible allergy season has been this year, and how we're all glad it's almost over.
I'm about to go on another walk today. It's a gorgeous, warm, sunny day, and I'm going to walk straight across town to check out the CrossFit gym over here. Who knows-- by tomorrow this time, I'll probably have a new best friend.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Virginia is for...Boxes?
So, I am no longer a New Yorker. I now live in Alexandria, Virginia. And it's official-- I may not know my zip code yet, but I did change my Facebook profile.
Moving was...an experience. Don't get me wrong, I have moved a lot. Probably an unnatural amount, actually. And not just down the street, either-- I've been a part of at least two continental moves. My first move was when I was an infant, about five months old. My parents, who had moved from Brazil to Memphis, TN before I was born, were returning home, baby in tow. As a child, I moved three more times-- first, to my grandparents, then to our own apartment, then from our original apartment to a bigger apartment, and then from that big apartment to our house out in the country when I was six. We lived at the house for awhile, but when I was twelve came the second continental move-- back to Memphis, TN.
I remember my mom being stressed about the move, but to me, it seemed okay. Other than the fact that she made me give up all of my childhood toys (with the unassailable argument that no twelve year old needs 25 Barbie dolls plus the Barbie DreamHouse and Convertible), I didn't have much to do. I picked the one toy I got to take (I wanted my bike, was told that was impractical to take along, and ended up with a box of books. So boring. Nevermind that my little brother got to take his motorized motorcycle. I still miss my silver bike) and the rest was up to my mom. We actually got to live in a hotel for about a month, which was pretty cool. Then, my parents, sister and brother went on a trip together for a month, and my baby sister and I stayed with my grandmother in Brazil-- I, because I wanted to maximize my time with my friends, and she, because my father deemed it impractical to take a two-year-old to the World Cup in California. Julia and I always did get the shaft. Even with all that, we beat our furniture and boxes to Memphis by a good month, in any case. My father rented a furnished house for us to fill in the time, which was cool, except that the family in that house, while a family of 6, was a family of 2 adults, one 10 year old, and 3 toddlers/babies. So I spent about a week sharing a loft twin bed with my little brother before my mom had a breakdown and insisted we move to our new house. Where we had, I kid you not, mattresses on the floor; a TV hooked up to cable (it was the World Cup, after all, and no self-respecting Brazilian will do without TV during this crucial time, never mind the lack of furniture); and five lawn chairs. Julia got the shaft again.
We lived at the same house in Memphis for awhile, and then I went to college with a couple of suitcases. That was 2001. Since then, I have moved at least once a year. I'm not kidding. I moved every year in college. That's 4 times (conservative estimate; I'm not counting the summer I moved to New York or the summer I lived in Brazil, since those were intended to be temporary). Then I moved to New York, into a law dorm. I decided I hated that, and when one of my good high school friends decided to move to New York, I moved out of the dorm into an apartment with her. That's 6 moves. Then, I moved into my own, very tiny apartment (which I technically shared with my sister for a few months). Then, I moved in with my boyfriend. 8 moves. Then, we moved to our first Brooklyn apartment. Nine moves. Then, we moved to our second Brooklyn apartment. Ten moves. Now, we moved to Virginia. Eleven moves. ELEVEN. Since college.
You'd think I'd be good at this by now. So why am I staring at a ridiculous amount of boxes? I can't imagine anyone needing this stuff. I mean, I'm happy to chuck it out the window right now...except my new neighbors might frown upon coming home to a heap of cardboard boxes blocking the driveway.
Moving was...an experience. Don't get me wrong, I have moved a lot. Probably an unnatural amount, actually. And not just down the street, either-- I've been a part of at least two continental moves. My first move was when I was an infant, about five months old. My parents, who had moved from Brazil to Memphis, TN before I was born, were returning home, baby in tow. As a child, I moved three more times-- first, to my grandparents, then to our own apartment, then from our original apartment to a bigger apartment, and then from that big apartment to our house out in the country when I was six. We lived at the house for awhile, but when I was twelve came the second continental move-- back to Memphis, TN.
I remember my mom being stressed about the move, but to me, it seemed okay. Other than the fact that she made me give up all of my childhood toys (with the unassailable argument that no twelve year old needs 25 Barbie dolls plus the Barbie DreamHouse and Convertible), I didn't have much to do. I picked the one toy I got to take (I wanted my bike, was told that was impractical to take along, and ended up with a box of books. So boring. Nevermind that my little brother got to take his motorized motorcycle. I still miss my silver bike) and the rest was up to my mom. We actually got to live in a hotel for about a month, which was pretty cool. Then, my parents, sister and brother went on a trip together for a month, and my baby sister and I stayed with my grandmother in Brazil-- I, because I wanted to maximize my time with my friends, and she, because my father deemed it impractical to take a two-year-old to the World Cup in California. Julia and I always did get the shaft. Even with all that, we beat our furniture and boxes to Memphis by a good month, in any case. My father rented a furnished house for us to fill in the time, which was cool, except that the family in that house, while a family of 6, was a family of 2 adults, one 10 year old, and 3 toddlers/babies. So I spent about a week sharing a loft twin bed with my little brother before my mom had a breakdown and insisted we move to our new house. Where we had, I kid you not, mattresses on the floor; a TV hooked up to cable (it was the World Cup, after all, and no self-respecting Brazilian will do without TV during this crucial time, never mind the lack of furniture); and five lawn chairs. Julia got the shaft again.
We lived at the same house in Memphis for awhile, and then I went to college with a couple of suitcases. That was 2001. Since then, I have moved at least once a year. I'm not kidding. I moved every year in college. That's 4 times (conservative estimate; I'm not counting the summer I moved to New York or the summer I lived in Brazil, since those were intended to be temporary). Then I moved to New York, into a law dorm. I decided I hated that, and when one of my good high school friends decided to move to New York, I moved out of the dorm into an apartment with her. That's 6 moves. Then, I moved into my own, very tiny apartment (which I technically shared with my sister for a few months). Then, I moved in with my boyfriend. 8 moves. Then, we moved to our first Brooklyn apartment. Nine moves. Then, we moved to our second Brooklyn apartment. Ten moves. Now, we moved to Virginia. Eleven moves. ELEVEN. Since college.
You'd think I'd be good at this by now. So why am I staring at a ridiculous amount of boxes? I can't imagine anyone needing this stuff. I mean, I'm happy to chuck it out the window right now...except my new neighbors might frown upon coming home to a heap of cardboard boxes blocking the driveway.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
It's time to leave New York...
It seems that it is time for me to leave New York City. After five years, it's a little hard to believe, and slightly surreal. I moved here right after college. I didn't have one of those romantic post-college experiences, where I packed a bag and road-tripped to the city where I wanted to live, crashed on a friend's couch until I found an apartment and a crappy job (ok, so maybe the word I'm looking for is crappy coming-of-age romantic comedy, but still). Oh no-- I had a plan! I came to New York with an acceptance letter from New York University School of Law in hand, an apartment lined up, and an internship at one of the most prestigious law firms in the country for the summer. I finished my internship. I started law school. I completed two more summers at top Wall Street firms. I graduated law school, took and passed the New York Bar Exam. I started working at one of the aforementioned top Wall Street firms.
During this time I met, and fell in love with, a fellow Wall Street lawyer.
Then came 2009. You know, the financial crisis. All of a sudden, instead of being the couple with a plan, we were unemployed.
I'm not going to lie. It was pretty fun. We went from working crazy hours and seeing each other in the middle of the night when we were half asleep to spending the whole day together. We got the chance to really talk about what we wanted out of life. I got in awesome shape (seriously...I all of a sudden fit into my high school clothes).
And then...he decided to join the Marines. Yup, you read that right. My corporate lawyer-sometimes investment banker-boyfriend decided to join the Marines. I could say I didn't see it coming, but that's not true either. Truth is, he talked about it a lot. In fact, in the four years I'd known him, he brought it up around once every couple of weeks or so, but mostly in a regretful way. As in, "If I knew then what I know now, I'd have joined after college." One October day, we were taking a long walk around Prospect Park, and I asked him-- "Why not now? They apparently need lawyers."
So we did what we do best-- we researched. Eventually, he contacted a recruiter (or, in Corps lingo, an "OSO"). We worked really hard on improving his PFT score (that's Physical Fitness Test, for those of you not familiar, and in the Marines, it consists of a 3-mile run, 20 pull-ups, and 100 sit-ups in 2 minutes). In December, we heard that he had been accepted to join the OCC class at OSC (Officer Candidates' School-- there are a LOT of acronyms, bear with me here) starting on January 15th.
We traveled to Quantico, VA. We said good-bye at the Amtrak station in Q-Town (Marine speak for the town of Quantico- as opposed to the Marine base). We didn't talk for 3 weeks and didn't see each other for 5. The next time I saw him, it was in a hotel room in Washington, D.C. where we spent around 12 hours together. He had a crewcut and cammies and combat boots. I saw him again 5 weeks later, when he was graduating OCS and getting ready to accept his commission.
And now it's April. He is starting TBS (The Basic School) also in Quantico. I still don't have a job. So I'm wrapping up my life in NYC, packing up our Brooklyn apartment and getting ready to move to Virginia. In six months, I have gone from Wall St. lawyer to military wife-to-be. And though leaving NYC is bittersweet and being without a plan for once in my life is scary, I'm the happiest I've been since...I can't remember when.
During this time I met, and fell in love with, a fellow Wall Street lawyer.
Then came 2009. You know, the financial crisis. All of a sudden, instead of being the couple with a plan, we were unemployed.
I'm not going to lie. It was pretty fun. We went from working crazy hours and seeing each other in the middle of the night when we were half asleep to spending the whole day together. We got the chance to really talk about what we wanted out of life. I got in awesome shape (seriously...I all of a sudden fit into my high school clothes).
And then...he decided to join the Marines. Yup, you read that right. My corporate lawyer-sometimes investment banker-boyfriend decided to join the Marines. I could say I didn't see it coming, but that's not true either. Truth is, he talked about it a lot. In fact, in the four years I'd known him, he brought it up around once every couple of weeks or so, but mostly in a regretful way. As in, "If I knew then what I know now, I'd have joined after college." One October day, we were taking a long walk around Prospect Park, and I asked him-- "Why not now? They apparently need lawyers."
So we did what we do best-- we researched. Eventually, he contacted a recruiter (or, in Corps lingo, an "OSO"). We worked really hard on improving his PFT score (that's Physical Fitness Test, for those of you not familiar, and in the Marines, it consists of a 3-mile run, 20 pull-ups, and 100 sit-ups in 2 minutes). In December, we heard that he had been accepted to join the OCC class at OSC (Officer Candidates' School-- there are a LOT of acronyms, bear with me here) starting on January 15th.
We traveled to Quantico, VA. We said good-bye at the Amtrak station in Q-Town (Marine speak for the town of Quantico- as opposed to the Marine base). We didn't talk for 3 weeks and didn't see each other for 5. The next time I saw him, it was in a hotel room in Washington, D.C. where we spent around 12 hours together. He had a crewcut and cammies and combat boots. I saw him again 5 weeks later, when he was graduating OCS and getting ready to accept his commission.
And now it's April. He is starting TBS (The Basic School) also in Quantico. I still don't have a job. So I'm wrapping up my life in NYC, packing up our Brooklyn apartment and getting ready to move to Virginia. In six months, I have gone from Wall St. lawyer to military wife-to-be. And though leaving NYC is bittersweet and being without a plan for once in my life is scary, I'm the happiest I've been since...I can't remember when.