You know that feeling when you get woken up during the climax of a dream? Your bones feel like sand, your bed sheets suddenly feel like Egyptian cotton and all you need is another five minutes? Well, I experienced all that when my mom woke me up at 5:30 a.m. to leave for Boston. Good thing I decided two hours of sleep would be sufficient after packing.
So here I was, driving a big, red pick-up truck with one of my buddies and about a gallon of coffee. As we cruised through the winding roads of Connecticut, I thought, “Should I have even left Jersey? Is all this work to leave a perfectly good apartment worth this misery?”
My arms ached from packing a truck with Ikea boxes, two couches, clothes, instruments, paintings and tears. As we neared Boston — and grew ever so closer to the dreaded move-in — the thought of opening the tailgate and letting everything fly out felt sweeter and sweeter.
I could keep complaining about the traffic in Boston or the torrential downpour, but that has already gone too far. Now let’s fast forward past finding a parking spot, unloading my life onto the sidewalk and asking a handsome firefighter to help move our couches up the stairs.
My roommates and I found these bags of clothes in our place. The previous tenants left us with so many wonderful things, such as mold and horrendously full mousetraps, but these bags — they had some promise.
We tore open the three garbage bags and started to pull things out. Heels, short sleeve cardigans and every hoodie style you can imagine. Thank goodness it got interesting.
My bag turned out to be a cornucopia of sweaters. There were fantastically itchy turtlenecks, snazzy cardigans and ancient collared pullovers. I tossed each of my roommates a dusty sweater and we suit up.
Think past our disgusting, worn out and sort of smelly fashion sense. Here we are, after years of anticipation, three friends finally living together. Our past years of trekking through sleet to visit each other are forever gone. We get to see each other every day without fail. We get to have family dinners and watch movies in our living room.
How could I possibly have been stressed about moving in? Like almost every person at Boston University, the three of us just had to get situated.
Oh, right, here’s why. I haven’t felt at home for four years. And for good reason, might I add.
In my junior year of high school, on the second day of school, a truck carrying 400 cases of Arizona iced tea tried to make it up my street. The thing is, it was raining and I live on literally the steepest street in town. The driver lost his brakes, fried his transmission, slid backwards down the street and plowed into my house.
I got back from school 20 minutes later to find a truck had broken through my garage like it was cardboard. The back end sputtered in the middle of the kitchen. So, our humble family of four had to pack up and get out.
First we stayed in a hotel for a month. The four of us shared a Queen sized bed, a twin and a couch. You can probably guess who was lucky enough to get the couch!
Then Mr. Insurance Company decided the Hotel was too costly, so we found a really wonderful rental house. It was spacious, well lit, and stayed pretty warm in December. There I threw the greatest New Year’s party of my life. I really started to like it there.
Then someone bought the house and we had to move.
We called the next house the Tree House. It sat on top of a heavily wooded hill. Owls flew overhead when we ate on the back porch, we didn’t need air conditioning and I could play my instruments outside and nobody would complain. Also, a 200-foot-tall oak tree grew through the back porch, which was totally cool. This place started to feel permanent.
But then the contractors called. Our house was finished. Nine months and one day after the accident, we could move back “home.”
But none of us wanted to be there. I had a year left until college. This house felt vacuous and I couldn’t be there. So we sold the monstrosity and moved into an apartment.
Then this past summer I lived alone above my father’s practice. It was my space. It was peaceful. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to go back to school.
But this Allston apartment feels right. We have it for a full year. I haven’t lived somewhere for an entire year in so long. I think I finally have found a place to call home, although it’s only temporary.
Brian Latimer is the Editorial Page Editor and a junior at Boston University studying History; Journalism; and Women, Gender and Sexuality Studies. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.