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100 Things About Me
The Bull's Testicles Project
Russia Trip: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Best of 2002: Movies, Books, Music.
Best of 2003: Movies.
Best of 2004: Movies, Books.
Best of 2005: Theater, Books.
Best of 2006: Theater, Books, Television.


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My Slate archive
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Wednesday, December 29, 2004

I Say Routine, You Say Rut
So, the cat is finally out of the bag: Microsoft has sold Slate to the Washington Post, the Seattle operations are pretty much closing down, and in a few months (March?), R and I are moving to New York. It’s kind of scary: New York is a huge city a long way away; we don’t know many people out there—no one outside of work, really; and we have to figure out all the logistics of life that have become routine here in Seattle.

The move would’ve been a lot easier 18 months ago when we were still in a cramped, crummy apartment; not only have we gotten used to space, glorious space, as well as luxuries like our own washer-dryer and a garden (not that I ever sat in it—I get a headache in the open air; that and the whole not-driving thing make me a natural New Yorker, I guess), but we both really like our house.

Of course, I could’ve stayed in Seattle, but this was too cool an opportunity to turn down.

Choosing between D.C. and New York wasn’t that hard. I enjoyed living in Washington in my early 20s, but unless you’re an attorney or a politician, it’s pretty unappealing once you hit 30. (Interestingly, many of my friends who still live there are shrinks. Not a coincidence, I think.)

At this point, we’re thinking we’ll live in Brooklyn, but our entire experience of that borough comes from a few recces of a few blocks—I've spent about 12 hours there! An eastward-bound colleague has her eye on the Village, but I think we’ve been spoiled for space, and R needs trees—at least one of which grows in Brooklyn.

Of course, we’ll have packers and movers, but there are still lots of unappealing tasks to take care of—rooting through all the boxes we’ve never opened to decide if we really need to keep whatever it was that seemed so essential 18 months ago.

Instead of dealing with such disagreeable responsibilities, I’ve been getting sentimental: This might be my last chance for Cineoke; my last-but-17 ride to work in the vanpool; my last brunch with X, etc. We just got back from a five-day break in Victoria that was one long string of thoughts like, “Is this my last meal at Greens?” or, “Will I ever buy another overpriced, past-its-sell-by-date English candy bar at Ye Olde Britishe Sweete Shoppe?”

Our twice- or thrice-yearly trips to Victoria have become pretty formalized—brunch at Rebar, afternoon meals at Greens (old-school vegan buffet but shockingly tasty and totally addictive), book-buying at Munro’s and Well’s Books, stationery shopping at The Papery and Getting It Right, movies at the Vic (not this time—I’d already seen Kinsey, the movie they were playing), etc. The routine hasn’t changed much in the last 13 years (well, a few things: Marks & Spencer closed, and I snubbed Murchie’s once they turned the back room into a tea salon, thus confining the majority of the day's customers to crowded, uncomfortable tables while the best room in the house sits empty for all but a couple of hours—that must be some mighty profit-margin on the afternoon teas), so perhaps it’s played out, but I’ve always found Victoria to be an excellent place for Reste and Relaxatione, so when the Clipper pulled out of the harbor, I wondered, “Is this the last time I’ll …”