There’s no place like home… (Thursday)

Ahhh… We have a permanent-for-a-year apartment. We are going to stay where we’ve been for this past week and a half.

What a relief to have a permanent address. Now, of course, I’ll have to memorize it (and the phone number), which could take some doing. I’ve seen the address written about three different ways and I’m not sure what all is included. Often instead of a house/building number, addresses will just be listed as “Crn of blank and blank street”. I also have yet to figure out if I need to include the region, which I think is Tauranga, on the postal address. And then there’s the four-digit zip-like code, which I haven’t included on anything I’ve filled out! I guess it probably doesn’t matter much, as our mail has gotten to us so far.

We’d spoken last week with Lindy, the manager here, after she’d asked what our long-term plans were. We had none, of course, so were pleased to when she mentioned that she had several places available depending on our budget. She returned from a holiday yesterday, said that she’d talked to the owner of our current apartment, and that he would be willing to let us have the place for the year. I was ecstatic; I’d been unconsciously settling in (though I had not unpacked a bag yet) – thinking of little things I’d need, measuring the distances of routine trips, envisioning the little deck in the summer time, etc – since we’d gotten here.

With that settled, I dragged the luggage into the living room and unpacked fully. I gave Cory, without his consent, actually, the dresser in the spare bedroom and took the one in our bedroom for myself. Hey, he gets up early and I don’t want him waking me up! He swears he doesn’t mind and even said that it makes sense. He spoils me terribly.

It is odd to unpack all your belongings in about 10 minutes and see that they don’t cover the living room floor. That is an overly-dramatic statement, as we have a 10x10 storage unit back in Coralville crammed to it’s gills with the rest of our belongings. But it was odd to unpack and “move-in” so quickly. But, still, a very good feeling…

I picked Cory up last night and told him it was left-overs or out-to-eat (which really just delays and extends the left-overs situation), so he picked out-to-eat. We went to a Mediterranean place; it was great food and a fun little café. Here’s what we haven’t gotten figured out yet…how one sits/orders over here. Sometimes, you walk directly to the counter, order, pay, and then sit wherever. Other times, you are seated, handed a menu, and then go to the counter to order/pay. One other time, we were seated, handed, a menu, and then a waitress came to take our order; we then paid at the counter at the end of the meal. I haven’t been able to discriminate upon entering what appropriate action is to be taken. So I usually just walk inside the door and stand, dumbly, until someone acknowledges me and comes to my aid. Surely there is some sort of “code” to follow, but I have no idea what it might be.

So today, after feeling satiated by my bout of unpacking and a good meal, I headed out to acquire some more “stuff” for our new home. The list wasn’t long, but I wasn’t really sure where to find everything and spend a fair amount of time pleasantly wandering around. It may be that I am very sensitive to it right now, but it seems that everyone is remarkably pleasant. Even when I do things “wrong”, like try to grab the debit card machine (I can’t tell when I am supposed to swipe my card and when they need to swipe my card for me), or take down a display item, or talk quietly to myself.

This talking to myself is not a new phenomenon. People joke about how that is okay, as long as you don’t answer yourself. Come on. I’m always carrying on a conversation; often it is out loud. It’s fine. I mean, I’m not yelling or using different voices (yet). At times I blame it on being a special education teacher; when the kiddos can’t always respond, you’ve got to keep the conversation going somehow! The reality is that I would probably do it anyway.

So, a frequent exchange I have with my self goes something like this, “Look right, then left. Right, look right.” At school, when I’m teaching kids to safely cross streets, I use similar wording; the kids know it so well eventually they mumble along with me. “Look left, look right. Is it safe to cross? Cross quickly.” I haven’t had to go this extended version, but, after a helpful warning from a friend who’d spent time in London, looking right has saved my behind more than once all ready.

Actually, I have to give Nikki full credit here. Cory and I were at a get-together and were getting ready to head out. As we were leaving for New Zealand shortly, as we were saying our goodbyes, Nikki offered the helpful reminder to always “look left”. She mentioned that she’d been nearly run over by a dozen taxis as she stepped out into traffic without looking left first. Old American habits die hard.

As we left and were making our way down the block, I was mulling her advice over in my head. “Look left? Hmm…” In that instant, the door to the home we’d been at burst open, Nikki stepped out into the evening, dramatically backlit by the glow of the house, and yelled, “Look RIGHT! I mean look right!” I have not mistaken this yet, thanks to Nikki. “Look right!” reverberates in my head.