I’m back in Amsterdam to pack up and move out. After a weekend of frantic packing and sorting, the removal me. There’s nothing much to do except now make sure they don’t pack our passports, so me and Ron are sitting face to face over the dining table that contains most of our stuff that isn’t going into storage. The phone is off, the television and stereo are packed but at least we still have internet.
I’ve been angsty the last few days, constantly reminding myself that moving house is one of the top 5 most stressful life events. It’s been a desperate rush to get things done before they arrived, and to be honest there’s a certain amount of crap that’s going into storage only to be thrown away when we get a new home. But I’ve moved home enough times to know that despite your good intentions you always run out of time.
It still doesn’t feel real. I don’t have any sense that in a couple of days I am leaving Amsterdam forever. And I can’t quite believe that next time I come back I’ll stay with friends or in a hotel. Again, I expected to feel sad but I don’t. I guess it’s just time to move on.
After spending one month in the new flat I know that I can live without most of the stuff that’s being packed away. But I’m trying not to watch, trying not to think about the things I’ll miss. The Chinese painting my mother left me in her will, my books, CDs. I hate the idea of my diaries going into storage but they’ve already been packed. All that stuff that you see so often that you take it for granted will be sealed in a container for the next few months. There’ll be no chance to retrieve the tent or the ice axes if we decide on a trip to the Alps. I won’t be able to pull the complete works of Shakespeare off the shelf to check a quotation. It’s an albeit temporary road of no return.
But for all that it’s exciting to know that when these things see the light of day again, we’ll be unwrapping them in our new home. Wherever that may be.