Tuesday, April 10, 2007
New Home, Same Old
Crash! My favorite coffee mug—one I'd bought in Guatemala in 1999—rolled out of a dish towel and broke into a dozen pieces on the concrete floor of my Jersey City garage.
That's going to be your car if you don't go to Yancey's right now. Quit messing around and GO TO SLEEP, I admonished myself. The mug was a warning that I was no longer capable of good judgment. How had I even managed to get this far in my jet-lagged state?
Henry the 1990 Ford Taurus started up with a tiny surprised gurgle, a murmer of annoyance that he'd suffered through yet another cold winter while I'd enjoyed the warmth of Cairo. I gave up on trying to find my Thermarest and sleeping bag, threw the electric blanket Turbo had given me in 2003 and some pillows into Henry's trunk, and headed over to my new home on my old street, 8th Street.
I'd been in transit since 7 a.m. in Barcelona and it was now eighteen hours, two lame plane movies, and one extended subway ride—the long way 'round from JFK to avoid stairs—later. Roberta had fetched me from the Grove Street PATH, where a stranger had carried my bag up the steps.
Yancey's condo was on the fourth story (ugh) of a brownstone on Hamilton Park. It isn't really Yancey's place now. It's my place. Yancey is in San Francisco where his wife has a job. I am renting his late 1800s Victorian apartment from him while I am in my personal limbo, in my extended moment of indecision. Where will I live? What will I do? Who cares? I need a nap.
Yancey's place is nearly identical to my old place, but without the Turbo touch. Without renovations. Also without furniture. I climbed the stairs, chose a spot in the front room for my pillows, plugged in the blanket (it's freezing here), and fell asleep on the ancient pine floor. Maybe the answers would come to me tomorrow. Yeah, right.