hits and misses

This afternoon at five o'clock, I parked the van I had rented for a day in the parking lot behind the local superstore. I took a long, deep breath of relief, open the door and stepped into a frigid December afternoon. After an all-out frenzy that lasted two days and thanks to a pair of priceless hands, my move was done.

The weekend of moving had started early on Saturday with a few hours behind a convulsively hissing Kärcher that soaked my carpets with a yellow fluorescing detergent, rinsed them thoroughly and then sucked them dry, more or less. I was initially disappointed that the biggest stains remained on the carpet, but the waste water from the Kärcher was black, so the cleaning clearly had had the desired effect.

The distance between the two apartments was less than three miles, but as the roads were busy with panicking Christmas shoppers, I started driving stuff to my new place only when the stores were about to close on Saturday. By one in the morning, the last box had been moved and the last bit of bulky furniture hauled up to the second floor. Not too bad, considering that the first box had only been filled on Friday. Today, I finished up, cleaning the old apartment and bringing it to a state that will make the landlord proud – a bit worn in some corners but in others undeniably cleaner than when I moved in.

I walked away from the van briskly, along a busy street and into the night. Fifteen minutes later, I entered the second Caffe Nero of Hammersmith, somewhat out of the way east of the tube station and much less crowded than the other one to the west. It's a nice place to hang out. I got a cappuccino and a piece of chocolate cake and slumped down in one of their comfortable leather chairs, stretching my legs and letting my drive rest – for what seemed like the first time in months.

My thoughts were free to contemplate the ramifications of the move. Quickly after deciding on the place, I had had second thoughts. It was bigger, for sure, and not on the ground floor, but it also seemed in a worse shape than my previous flat. Would it turn out to be a bad move, owing to the haste and hurry with which I had pulled it off, I was wondering.

Today, things had cleared up. I'm not going to regret the move, and I'm going to love the new apartment. I'm excited about a new neighborhood that's so much livelier than the old one and better connected by public transport. I'm going to miss Central line – the fastest and most reliable in London, the one that let me down only once – but having five tube stops less than a ten-minute walk away will make up for the loss – and I'll have a direct bus to college for the days it rains too much for walking.

Oh, that reminds me of the many miserable days I've spent cumulative hours at the bus stop waiting for the 49 that never came. Whenever the weather was too horrid for riding my bike, I'd walk the fifteen minutes to the Green, getting so thoroughly soaked that I might as well have ridding my bike, and position myself at the bus stop watching all those other buses go by, a 31, a 260, a C1 – Should I take this for the longer trip to South Kensington or wait it out until the 49 comes sidling around the glass edge of the Westfield? – another 31, another 260, and still no 49. On Monday, I'll take the 49 one last time when I do the inventory and return the keys. After that, no more wasting time at the bus stop. I'm so excited.

I'm not going to miss the Arabic grocery stores that I had initially been enthusiastic about. Their brightly lit, colorful fruit and vegetable displays were always mortally disappointing, the produce frequently old and sometimes rotten. Their sales people gave the impression of passionately hating infidels and objecting to having to serve them. Seeing their hateful faces was funny at first but got old quickly. Once I discovered the Waitrose inside the newly opened Westfield, there was no going back. Their employees were cheerfully friendly and their victuals fresh.

I'm not going to miss the Polish store either, though their dark, heavy full-grain bread was a treat that I never tired of. It easily topped the loaves at Forrest the Baker. But there's German bakery only ten minutes from my new flat, on the way to college. I have great hopes for it.

My hopes are not very high for finding a place like the Westfield in Fulham, and I'll miss it. Normally, I would find it odd to mourn the loss of a shopping center, but the shiny new mega-mall was a precious addition to my neighborhood. Plenty of shopping opportunities, coffee shops, and comfy chairs with free wireless. Not a bad place to hang out for a few hours, working on a story or a post and watching the crowds.

I'll miss the Nepalese Tandoori restaurant around the corner and the Damascene and the Northern Thai restaurants further up the road, as much for the food as for the memories. But I'll make new memories in a new neighborhood, and I'll find new great restaurants. I've already seen a Taiwanese grill that looks very promising.

The street I lived on was rather busy, leading traffic to the motorway and cop cars and ambulances to the rough council estate nearby. But for all the noise, the street was entirely residential. The new street is mixed residential/commercial, with flats sitting on top of ground-floor shops. There's a grocery store just across the street and a coffee shop next to it. Next door, there's a kebab shop and a barber. It will feel like living in a city, and I'm thrilled.

Of course I could just be imagining things. What do I know what my hood looks like around the next corner? My coffee finished, I pushed my chair back from the low table in front of my and get up, ready to head back into the winter cold outside and stroll to my new home. Let's see what kind of unexpected treasure I find on the way.