Why, thank you.

I moved into my new apartment with my dear friend Jessica (and the two cats!–Mr Sinister & Miss Jupiter) just a little over two weeks ago.  Jessica works as a case manager for the homeless in Quincy, and since I do not yet have a full-time job, and being that Boston is a bit too rich for our blood, we decided to move to Quincy so that her commute was not so long.  As it stands, I am working part-time for my program while I finish up my MA thesis over the summer, so now I have the long commute.  (Jessica drives; I take public transportation–a 45-minute commute on a good day, an hour and a half-commute on a bad day)

We have been quite busy.  In the two weeks we have lived here, we have had maybe four nights in which we did not have a visitor come over in the evening or stay the night.  Everything has been go go go nonstop.  We have unpacked pretty much everything, though there still remains some odds and ends which need to be given a place.  I have yet to completely finish unpacking my room, but I am hoping to get that done today or tomorrow.  After I write this I am going to go take my beloved books out of their boxes (many of which have already been taken out, because I cannot leave them alone) and give them a home.  That will, by far, be my favorite task.

We live in a small building of only eight apartments.  It is nestled towards the top of a small hill on a quiet little street with sidewalks that look more like lumps on the side of the road.  Truly, it looks like a paving job gone awry.  It took me a week before I realized they were even sidewalks.  I thought they were part of the road.  They certainly have character.  I will be singing a different tune come winter when I will have to scoot down the hill on my butt to avoid tripping on ice.

Our apartment, though, is incredibly nice.  We absolutely love it.  While we are on a quiet street that is somewhat out of the way and not often traversed, we are still very close to everything.  The T stop I take into Boston to go to work is about a ten- or fifteen-minute walk away.  We are very close to the pharmacy and grocery store (by car, though I could walk to either in about twenty or thirty minutes, respectively).  My friends (a married couple with an adorable baby girl) from the Catholic Center back at school are pretty much right around the corner from me, a five-minute walk at most.  I go to Mass with them, and the parish is quite close–only a ten-minute walk from me, a five-minute walk from them.  (The parish is quite lovely inside, though its parishioner base is primarily elderly.  I may start attending Mass back at my school in autumn again–I am not sure, though.  It is a bit of a commute, but I also think it would benefit me to be around others of my age.)  The main street of Quincy (which is very, very, very long) is also very close, about five minutes away.  Most importantly, though–and where my priorities lie but perhaps should not–is the locale of the library.  It is five minutes away.  FIVE. MINUTES.  It is glorious.  It is an absolutely amazing library, and a beautiful one, too, but that is deserving of a post in and of itself, so I shall say no more upon the matter at the present.

When I left my house in Indiana to come to college, I was nervous.  I did not really know anyone.  That is normal for most people to feel, but so, too, is a sense of lament when you leave “home.”  I never really felt that when I left.  I missed my father and my siblings, certainly, but I did not feel that sense of ineffable despondence one gets when you are torn away from the familiar, the comfortable, the belonging–home.  I did not feel that.  When I looked around my empty dorm room–the room in which I spent the past three years–two weeks ago, I thought I would feel that, but I did not.  I merely sighed, turned off the light switch and closed the door.  I felt frustrated by that.  I have always adapted well, even though I am not one for a lot of change, and I think this is because in my life, I have never really felt…at home.  Granted, I lived in the same house from infancy through high school, and then I had a lightless room my freshman year, and then I switched to the room I would remain in for the rest of my undergraduate and graduate career.  On the whole, that is not a lot of moving.  If anything, it is less than most people.  I sometimes feel at home with people, but my environments have always been a reflection of those around me, not me.  I have never really been struck with the feeling of this is where I belong; it has always been more of a feeling of this will do.  I guess I do not tend to reach for the sky about things like that.  I usually just take whatever is within my reach, because what right do I have to be picky?  I know my place, and I do not ask for much.

When Jessica and I saw this apartment, though, we knew within three minutes that we wanted it.  We were impressed with the size of it and the price (it would probably sound like highway robbery to you, but for being the Boston area, it is a steal–admittedly, though, it is highway robbery).  Jessica was impressed with the wet bar.  I was impressed with the existence of a dishwasher.  We were both ecstatic that we would each have our own bathroom.  We just knew.  We went and saw a second apartment that was seated partially underground.  It was small, it was ill lit and it was stifling.  We looked at each other five seconds after entering, and we gave each other a meaning look.  We were polite and listened to the realtor.  We indulged him, and when we walked outside and he asked us what we thought, we said no.  We were both thinking about the first apartment.  That evening, we went to the gym together to work off our excitement.  We had an appointment a few days later to look at other apartments.  Jessica wanted the first apartment.  I did, too, but I decided to be sensible and tell her that we should look at the others first before making a decision.  She reluctantly agreed to my logic, and we proceeded with our workout.  Afterwards, we looked at each other.  I know Jessica well, and I knew what she was going to say before she said it, but I let her say it anyway, because I know she needed to.  She said that she loved it and that she wanted it, and then she started having an anxiety attack over someone else snatching it up from underneath us.  So, against my better judgment, I sighed and asked her whether she wanted to make the call the next morning or whether she wanted me to.

And here we are.

I am living with two extremely loving cats who drive me crazy all the time and who do not know the meaning of personal space; and a lovely, eccentric young woman who is overprotective to the nth degree and who makes me laugh frequently and who is absolutely nothing at all like me but who I call my best friend.  I do not know whether this will finally be “home” for me or not, but I do know that I am where I want–and need–to be, at least for now.  And for now it is looking pretty good.