Moving is hard.
My lovely and vivacious wife and I are learning that finding a place to live can be a lot of work, as we struggle to walk that line between convenient location and cost efficiency, all while dealing with the fact that we routinely have no idea where we are.
We came down here with only one job between us, two car-loads of winter clothing, and an angry feline. In all honesty, it is no exaggeration to say this move would have been impossible without the help of my sister and brother-in-law. We have been camping in their spare bedroom while we are homeless, so at least we’re not rushed into finding a place to live.
Without them, we would still be in Minnesota. Of course, they’re getting something out of the arrangement also. I mean, they have been graced with my skillful repartee for weeks, and I have almost single-handedly rid their house of undesirable objects like cheese and candy.
Moving is stressful. It always is. I remember when I moved to Minneapolis back in 2001: I drove up to the Cities for a long weekend only to spend my entire time driving around and trying to find the best place to live even though I was unfamiliar with most of the town. I was rushed and feeling desperate, but at the last possible moment, at the last apartment I was going to look at (it’s always the last place you look at, isn’t it?) I found a nice little apartment on a quiet street, near a park and near downtown. Looking back, I guess the apartment didn’t look like much. But I survived law school in that apartment. I met my lovely and vivacious future wife while I was living there. It was perfectly situated, and aside from the occasional proposition from a street-walker, it was perfect for me.
So I’m uncharacteristically optimistic about our chances of finding a nice place to live. It’s happened before, when I was rushed and alone, and I’m confident it will happen now that I am with family.