Get Back to Where You Once Belonged

So I found a new place and moved in on Tuesday. It’s a townhouse with a family (mother, father, 11-year old daughter[1]), and I get the top floor, consisting of a large bedroom, bathroom and smallish study. The building is part of an entire block of historic buildings, 18th century revivalist style, with lots of trees and ivy and charm. The neighbors all know each other, and it’s generally an oasis of small-town life in the middle of bustling Brooklyn.

On Friday my old roommate emailed me to say that my replacement bailed out on her.

I hadn’t signed a lease or anything at the new place, and it’s such a great place that I’m sure they’ll have no trouble finding a new tenant. So I moved back on Saturday.

Sheesh. Fortunately I don’t have a lot of stuff, but it’s still a pain in the ass making 12-odd trips up and down the steps to the 3rd floor. And the worst part: driving a rental truck through Brooklyn. The first move was a van, so that wasn’t so bad, but yesterday it was a big truck. The last time I drove one of those things, I scraped my neighbor’s front bumper, so I have a phobia about that sort of thing.

It had to be done. Back here in Red Hook, I’m saving $300 in rent every month, and the commute to my new job is about 20 minutes compared to 40 at the other place. Plus it’s “my neighborhood” and I was already starting to miss it[2]. I don’t have to change my address, nor do I have to stress out my already-stressed-out roommate.

It’s good to be home.

1.) She was cool. She’s an actress who had a small part in BAM’s MacBeth with Patrick Stewart.
2.) I’d miss my $10 Cuban haircuts.