HEADLINE: There is a difference between independence and utter foolishness.
In the first 16 years of my life, my family moved cities, houses, and neighbourhoods about the same number of times I had been alive. So, by the time I reached adulthood, I was a pro at packing and tossing my belongings. When I moved from Winnipeg to Vancouver in the mid-eighties, I arrived with two suitcases of clothes, a set of stainless-steel pots and pans, and a brand-new ironing board.
Starting over is challenging. Where do you store all your unpacked boxes before garbage day? How do you determine the right size of furniture for your new place? And why is IKEA so far from downtown? These conundrums are just part of the relocating experience, and over the years, I have developed several relocation self-help strategies:
- If colour is not your forte, white walls happen to go with everything you could ever own.
- Don’t throw away your boxes (empty or packed) until you have bought all your furniture. Your moving containers can double as a dining table, nightstand, bookshelf, and in a pinch, even a place to sit.
- Pay the shipping fees! Yes, every penny counts in life, but furniture does not travel well on a city transit bus.
My first Vancouver apartment was in the West End neighbourhood, and I had a fabulous peek-a-boo view of English Bay. I was excited about decorating my flat, but where does one start? How should I subdivide my teensy tiny studio apartment? Before Sketchup or any other 3D computer program was invented, my solution to all spatial dilemmas was to mockup my ideas. So, I arranged and rearranged my leftover moving boxes (pretending they were pieces of furniture) until I understood what could and wouldn’t fit.
I was heading for medical school, and practicality was required.
Sitting on the floor, amongst my stacked boxes, I flipped through the 1987 IKEA Spring/Summer catalogue, envisioning my flat as one of IKEA’s staged vignettes. Don’t judge, but in the late 1980s, I loved white IKEA furniture, multi-coloured leg warmers, and spiral perms. But my daydreaming came to a grinding halt when I realized that I would never get through medical school without a desk.
IKEA shopping was next on the agenda. The problem was that I didn’t have a car and was too afraid to drive a rented vehicle in this big new city. So, I called the transit line to confirm a travel route, and the instructions were to take a downtown city bus to Richmond and transfer buses once I crossed the Oak Street bridge. Sounded simple enough. City transit was the only economical way I could think of for my journey to IKEA.
The next day I departed as instructed, and the bus dropped me off on a side street next to an empty parking lot (my transfer station). It felt like the middle of absolutely nowhere. I waited (and waited) for the bus to arrive, and as my anxiety increased, I began to imagine myself being stranded forever. What if the instructions provided were incorrect? What if the bus never arrives? Maybe, I was standing at the wrong stop.
Finally, two hours later, I arrived at IKEA.
The warehouse space was overwhelming, but eventually, I found my desk. I bent down to pick up the desk and immediately pulled a muscle. Seventy pounds is heavier than I thought. After a small wrestling match, I heaved the boxed desk onto my cart and headed to the info station.
“Hi,” I said to the sales associate. “I would like this desk delivered to my apartment downtown.”
“I’m sorry,” said the associate. “We don’t ship items from the self-serve aisle.”
“But how do I get this home? I don’t own a car.”
I am sure he was thinking, “that’s not my problem,” but he was gracious enough. “Perhaps you could call a taxi,” he suggested.
I thanked him for his non-help and swung the cart towards the cashier. Perhaps he was right. I pondered the idea of a taxi for a moment, but why should I spend $100 on a cab when I could physically complete the task for under $3? And besides, this would be a suitable replacement for missing my morning workout.
I walked towards the bus stop with the five-foot by three-foot flat-packed box. By the time I completed the two-block voyage, I was starting to question my decision-making process. A few folks were already at the stop, and I could feel their quizzical eyes staring directly at me. I casually rested the box against my left shoulder, pretending this monstrosity of a thing weighed next to nothing.
When the bus arrived, I motioned for everyone to board first, and I followed behind. Somehow, I maneuvered my way onto the first step. But unknowingly, the box landed on my loose shoelace. When I tried to shift my weight to take the next step, I lunged forward, banging my head against the bus driver’s plexiglass protection screen. Eventually, I made my way to the first seat by the door and sat down, just as beads of sweat started to run down the back of my neck.
In all the flurry and determination to prove myself capable of using my method of transport, I completely forgot about the final trek home. The stop closest to my apartment building was about five blocks away, and although the two-block jaunt at IKEA had been a less-than-optimal experience, five blocks felt somewhat impossible. I dragged the box more than I carried it, and when I approached Burrard and Drake Street, a single white melamine panel was starting to escape out the bottom of the box. I had one uncontrolled intersection and two buildings left on my journey, but it felt like a hundred miles.
Standing on the east side of Burrard, catching my breath from the drag-and-scrape episode, I wondered what was wrong with me. Why do I always have to do things the hard way? I stared into the oncoming traffic, contemplating the safest way to cross the busy six-lane street while carrying a desk. A taxi slowed down to see if I needed a ride. I almost said yes, but I was not in the mood to be ridiculed. I could imagine the look when I explained that I required a lift to the other side of the road, so I waved the taxi on.
“Be brave!” I thought to myself.
Throwing caution to the wind, I put my hand up like a traffic cop controlling a busy intersection. And before the drivers could question my level of authority, I stopped traffic in both directions, as I marched across the road with my new desk in tow.
