Le 4ème déménagement en 3 ans

Today I hired a cab to transport an old Billy shelf, plants and my big red chair from my mum’s place home. I planned it badly, though, for the middle of the afternoon, when Gergö is at work. He started his new job on September 3 and will work from home. For the time being, he works at the office. His desk and chair are assembled now, but he is still waiting for his work laptop to show up, so he is using a desktop machine at the office.

I figured I only need to take out the shelves and carry the empty corpus (that’s what Ikea calls it) to the elevator with my mum. Turns it was about 1 cm too high to fit into the elevator. I really really didn’t want to carry a Billy down four flights of stairs with my mum. And the cab I’d hired explicitly said they only do transports from sidewalk to sidewalk, so I resigned myself to not being able to get this done today.

I had forgotten about the casual sexism of men used to doing heavy lifting. They showed up on time, wouldn’t let me load the car and when I said that the Billy didn’t fit into the elevator one of the guys carried it downstairs alone. I’m a feminist, but I will let strong men unload heavy things from the car and carry them much further than contractually agreed upon.

I paid them and even gave a big tip. The joke’s on me though, because I sent them away saying that I can get the shelf out of the lift and the 2 metres to my front door alone. I couldn’t. Not because it was too heavy, but because the wall on the 5th floor is lower than on the ground floor and blocks me from getting the shelf out from the elevator. I ended up taking it out on the 4th floor and sticking a note on it saying “Sorry, I will carry this upstairs later”.

I got lucky in most other aspects of the transport, though – the casual racism was minor and I managed to change the topic quickly and hear about the cab drivers side business as vegan pastry chef instead. And it only started pouring down once I had everything safely inside the apartment (or well, on the 4th floor of the building).

The last two weeks were exhausting. I knew that I hated moving apartments. After all, I’ve done it four times in three years. But I had, as usual, underestimated the amount of work that goes into filling an apartment with furniture. When we left Vienna three years ago we didn’t take any furniture with us. We sold, threw away, gifted and donated all of our furniture and most of our other belongings. And the last three apartments (Palaiseau, Paris Bercy, Paris Clignancourt) were furnished.

We still managed to accumulate a lot of things while living in France. We asked three moving companies how much it would cost to transport our stuff to Austria. The estimates were 2 000 € upwards, so we decided to move by post. One package of up to 30 kilos cost 59 €. Gergö estimated that we would need 10 boxes, I thought 3. We donated a lot of household things to Emmaüs (it’s a lot like Caritas).

We posted 7 boxes of clothes, personal belongings, favourite mugs and documents to Austria. The 6th one I called box of shame, because frankly, it consisted mainly of things I should have let go of but couldn’t. The 7th box consisted of things I had forgotten about. If it had been a word document I’d have called it “box_last_last_final_2.docx”.

We took it to the post office on Wednesday, our very last day in Paris. I was nervous about returning the apartment because our landlords were extremely thorough when we moved in. They basically counted every tea spoon and pillow case. So I reckoned that would happen again. Instead they did a cursory tour of the apartment, offered to write a cheque for the deposit but agreed to do a transfer instead. 30 minutes later we were in a cab on our way to the airport. Way too early, but there really wasn’t anything left to do in Paris.

I said something like “I was nervous, but I think I handled that pretty well. I didn’t freak out and I didn’t even cry once.” Gergö said he thought that I was indeed calm, but he thought that I was catatonic, sitting on the sofa, reading on my phone. And I was trying very hard to distract myself with funny gifs and uplifting buzzfeed listicles on home improvement. I even mostly stopped reading my twitter feed for the last two weeks in Paris because I felt I couldn’t handle any more terrible news from all over the world.

We arrived in Vienna fairly late. My dad picked us up and had an inflatable mattress, blankets and pillows borrowed from my sister and my mum in his trunk. We spent our first night on the inflatable mattress in an otherwise empty apartment.

I slept badly, but I think it was mostly the adrenaline wearing off.

Our fancy new mattress was delivered on the first day. The delivery people brought them up and put them on the floor of the living room. I asked if I needed to sign anything. “One second, there’s more”, they said and brought in two large boxes. I was surprised because I hadn’t ordered anything else. But I signed the papers, they left and I lifted the boxes. They were very light. I opened them and they were empty. There was absolutely nothing in it. I have no idea who messed up and how, but for some reason our mattress delivery came with two boxes of air.

They ended up coming in handy for collecting all the cardboard we accumulated.

The first two days we spent without anything to sit on, except a hand crocheted carpet I had insisted on bringing. My sister and my mum brought over the triplets for a picknick on the carpet and jumping on the inflatable mattress. Since then we have been to Ikea twice and had a large delivery by them as well. The apartment has filled up with Ikea flatpacks, empty cartons, assembled furniture and the detritus that comes with all of this. I borrowed my sister’s orange cart (the one that fits three sitting three year olds) to bring a cartload of carton and plastic to the Mistplatz (the place you take the recycling that’s too big for the bins or for which there are no bins).

We got back Miriam, our sour cherry tree that had been at my sister’s place and also a giant ficus benjamini

We are slowly getting there…


Au revoir Bercy, bonjour Clignancourt

The move went as well as could be expected.

As per usual I underestimated the amount of stuff we had. But that soon became evident when I couldn’t fit all my clothes into my large suitcase even after I opened the zip that expands it by about 20 cm.

We discussed when the taxi van would come to pick us up (13:40) and then, on the Saturday of the big move, I suddenly misremembered the time as 13:20 and insisted to be downstairs with all our luggage at 1pm. I’m still surprised gergö agreed to it without arguing. We only cleared up the mistake once we had 9 pieces of luggage downstairs.

On the plus side that left us enough time to get lunch from the food truck that is in the park on Saturdays. I’d seen it once before but wasn’t hungry at the time. Of course I had to try the home made pickled veggies. The veggie burger was delicious as well.

It would be a lie to say I was getting nervous by the time it was 13:30, because I had already been very nervous for the entire day. Every time a taxi drove past I indignantly said “That’s not a van!”. When the car arrived it was a very big van. The driver helped with luggage tetris and we easily fit all the suitcases and boxes into the trunk and only had to take two medium sized bags to the sitting area – which was no biggie, as it had room for 6 people facing each other.

The plan was to unpack the two big suitcases and the small ones and return to Bercy with them. Maybe bring another bag or two. I was proud that I fit all my clothes into the wardrobe until I realised that a whole lot of them are still in various bags of dirty laundry and some additional boxes when I ran out of space.

After the first run.

When we arrived back in Bercy for the second tour it was evident that there was a concert – there were large groups of people everywhere. I sometimes try to guess the artist or music style based on the crowd. It was fairly easy for Metallica – I’d never seen so many middle aged men wearing metal shirts in one place. It was more difficult for Celine Dion – lots of women but not exclusively, all age groups. It was impossible for Phil Collins – what are elderly British couples doing here?

The crowd for the concert on Saturday was almost exclusively black. It was a different crowd than for Drake, though. There were vendors selling beignets (fried food, can be sweet like donuts, but I’ve also seen it salty) and drinks. There were women dressed in evening gowns who I suspect left their coats in the car, wearing extremely high heels. I saw someone wrapped in a flag, but I didn’t recognise it. It was only halfway to our apartment that I saw that it was a concert by Youssou N’dour. I know the name because of a song in the nineties he did with Neneh Cherry. Turns out he is not just a musician but also a Senegalese politician and he draws quite the crowd.

We returned to the apartment and did some more packing. Gergö really wanted to take at least his large suitcase back to the new apartment by metro. He was concerned that we wouldn’t fit everything into the van on the next day. I only took a small suitcase and our fresh food. I thought at 9 pm the concert would be in full swing and there’d be no more crowd outside the metro stop, and said something to that effect. Gergö finally stopped the tolerant boyfriend act he’d been keeping up all day and snapped at me “You are overthinking this, Verena!”.

Well, I wasn’t. The place was just as busy as before. I don’t think there was anybody trying to sell or buy tickets anymore, but there were people chatting and eating and arriving and leaving and just standing around. I bumped into about 20 of them with my suitcase and promptly lost Gergö on the way.

He wanted to use the elevator, but while it looked like it worked, it never moved. In order to get from our old apartment to the new one you need to change metros at châtelet. It’s the stop that most lines call “Châtelet/Les Halles”, except for the few metro lines that stop at both châtelet and les halles, like the 4. The change over from 4 to 14 isn’t so bad, as they are right beside each other and you don’t have to walk along endless underground tunnels for hours.

That was one of the reasons Gergö originally wanted to do the move by public transport – only two metros with an easy change over. So it was very gratifying when most of the elevators and escalators weren’t working – my decision to spend about 70 € on taxi vans was the right one. I’m sure even Gergö agreed as he was dragging the large suitcase upstairs at châtelet station. So yeah, I hate moving apartments, but I do get a kick out of being right twice in one day. Almost worth the move. Almost.

The second day the taxi van was smaller and the driver didn’t help much with the luggage. During the ride he listened to Radio Africa 1 and sang along and we even heard a song by Youssou N’dour. We successfully transported the rest of our belongings to our new place in Clignancourt. I was wrong when I said we’d be moving to Montmartre. We are in the ugly little sibling quartier of Clignancourt.

I’m glad I took photos before we moved our things, so I can show the apartment without having to tidy up the incredible mess.

The new place is slowly taking shape. The bed turned out to be far too soft, but before we buy a new mattress Gergö wants to try sleeping on the floor with just the mattress. For that we need to make enough room in the apartment to put the bed frame somewhere. For that I needed to go to the laundromat once more for the giant bag of bed linen and towels that needed washing.

You can tell that Clignancourt is less fancy than Bercy because there are more laundromats and they are busier. There are about 10 laundromats on my way to work. The closest is literally around the corner. I filled a 14 kilo machine easily and then hoped one of the 8 giant tumble driers would free up in time. We are looking at a manageable amount of laundry for the first time in months.

For the first week of his new commute Gergö sent me daily texts how long it took to get to work. It’s about 45 minutes and he didn’t yet have to commute in the warm embrace of a complete stranger while people try to shove their way onto an overly full train, so I think it’s a win. I’m not sure he agrees. I really enjoy walking to work – 2 kilometers which take 22 minutes. I hatch a Pokemon egg every other day. It’s definitely an improvement over métro 13.