The first week of living somewhere new is roughly the same just about anywhere you (I) go. Day one begins with the jarring realization that you have stopped somewhere long enough to put your bag down, and won't be leaving for quite some time. Which is scary. This leads to the panicky feeling upon waking up on day 2 that perhaps you haven't stopped at the right place, which is then confirmed that night when you get lost getting back to your own apartment. This results in an unpleasant day 3 spent pacing, frowning, coffee drinking and frequently visiting kayak.com just to make sure there aren't meaningfully cheap routes to somewhere nicer. Acceptance, or whatever you want to call it, arrives with the lebanese takeout you got for dinner on day 4, and usually requires several hours of lying on the cool tile of your new floor, looking up at the ceiling as the roomier sections of your brain play host to the various arguments for and against moving in the first place: right city, wrong city, no friends, new friends, too pricy, etc.. Then comes a day of serious nesting, where you finally shove things around in your room until they seem to compliment your sense of space; your priorities. And then, suddenly, as you wake up on day six, things begin to feel familiar. A system emerges. It is the same. Every. Single. Time. Dogs have to circle three times before they lie down in the sun, I have to give my consciousness over to this welcoming committee of neurosis every time I move before things feel right enough to stay. And here I am on day 7, spoonful of cheerios in hand, snugly nestled in to my new niche, feeling protected and relaxed for the first time all week and looking forward to what the next one has to offer. Now, watch as I get mugged on my way to dinner.

Comments

Nate
Amen.

m.
...since the next one involves the avetts, it can't be anything BUT stupendous. but hoping nyc proves equally so :)