I've been packing since Monday--although today has been my only full-day effort--and doing so has forced me to confront just how much stuff I have. I have very little real furniture and I'm moving even less, but to make up for it I have, oh, let's see. . . eighteen champagne flutes. An extremely heavy cut-glass punch bowl with fifteen matching cups. An even heavier Underwood typewriter from the 1920s. Probably two dozen purses and a dozen hats. Way too many framed prints and pieces of artwork. And let's not even get started on my files, which include some fifteen years' worth of correspondence and newspaper and magazine articles.
(And here's the worst part about packing: once you're done, then you have to go and unpack!)
Thankfully, however, this back-breaking labor has been interrupted nearly every day, and in ways that make me feel that I'm at least making the most of my final week here. Last weekend Amelia--a college friend whom I don't see nearly enough--was visiting from Other Eastern City and we went out with Bert and Julio on Friday and Saturday, getting to bed around 3 a.m. both nights. Then on Tuesday, after Bob gave me the second greatest haircut of my life (which he promises will last the 10 weeks until I'm back in town for a wedding), HK took me as her date to a schmancy law-firm-sponsored dinner. Mmmm: let's hear it for the chef's tasting menu.
Last night Jonesy and I went to see the new print of Louise Brooks' Pandora's Box, the showing of which featured an awesome live piano player--today I stayed in and packed--tomorrow night HK and I are hosting a joint farewell drinks session--and then Saturday, I'm gone.
[A pause, while Flavia contemplates that statement.]
Well. There's no help for it, so I might as well look forward to it.