Change

We left Manhattan, bound from Harlem for Brooklyn.  

This trip was repeated several times, in vehicles ranging from Zipvans to U-Haul trucks to a proper moving truck with three strong men, then a Zipcar and another Zipvan.

If there is a Medal of Honor for moving, the Frenchman gets it. 

He is Le Tired.

Not pictured: the blood, the sweat, the tears. We had all three. Smaller amounts of blood and tears balanced by copious sweat. 

Our hearts could not help singing a little, as the BQE brought us into Brooklyn.

Passing Dumbo, and its condominiumed factories.

Seeing rooftop trees against large amounts of sky. 

And Vince thought about running again near the water, and across the Brooklyn Bridge.

Brooklyn Bridge Park appeared.

And Atlantic Avenue. See, Brooklyn has trash, too (note to self).

And at last, our block, in Carroll Gardens.

The boxes and the furniture and plants have been offloaded. Unpacking has begun. Things are in limbo, as they will be for a while, before we find our domestic and horticultural feet. But we have the essentials for ground floor living: mosquito wipes, red wine, and pizza.

I will be in South Africa in a week, to see my parents. My father was diagnosed with vascular dementia, and things are changing fast. He is still himself, but he suffers from intense short term memory loss.

Vince will fly out for his annual two weeks of vacation (seriously, when will Americans wise up to the ridiculousness of this?) and for a few days we will head up the West Coast to see flowers, stars, and to be alone with the road.

And in this week that is left we will learn the language of our new home. Find domestic landmarks, carve out new patterns, mark the moon and plot our nightwalks from bedroom to kitchen, without lights.

The landscape is altered.