My moving in date draws tantalisingly closer. I’ve told hotel owner Nik, that I’m moving out by early September. I pay him for the first week of the month, to cover myself should any of my plans go awry.
I contact the removal company with the exact details of my new address. The earliest they can schedule is the first Monday of the month; the same day the internet is due to be installed. The delay turns out to be a blessing in disguise. European bureaucracy is still slowing me down.
I attend an inventory of the flat a few days before the move. The expert, M. Poêle, is held up. When he arrives, he’s thorough to the point of pedantry. There is, however, a genial side to his officiousness. He's a Buddhist, he says. He doesn’t take kindly to me squashing the stubborn insects that remain; even after the flat has been professionally cleaned.
M. Poêle notices every little stain or negligible dent left by the previous tenant. He's perplexed how she managed to do any damage in such a short period of time.
Everything was brand new when she moved in.
He keeps making reference to her oddity.
Nice girl but...he shakes his head.
Head in the clouds? I ask
More like she was on Mars or Venus.
At some point M. Poêle mentions that I am liable for half the cost of the Etat des Lieux; €150. That’s not something sexy Milo brought to my attention. I call him to check.
Oh yes, it's in the lease. [I check. It's not]. But you won’t have to pay right away.
Wrong again. Poêle requests for an upfront cash payment. I stop off at the ATM in the station opposite the flat. I make sure to obtain a receipt.
A few days later, I take Nik up on his generous offer to give me a lift to my new place. Starting with the heavy suitcase that accompanied me from Strasbourg, I plan to move in gradually that weekend.
I’m racked with all sorts of anxieties. Given its proximity to foliage, I’m afraid my new place has an insect problem and I might be overrun. Having sought a quote, I decide against an expensive fumigation. Instead, I ask one of the cleaning staff at the hotel to give the flat the once over that Saturday. It’ll also mean I won’t be on my own as I begin unpacking.
She pulls out at the last minute. I can’t arrange an alternative at that late stage. The phobia of unwanted critters is real. Yet it’s starting to feel a lot like an externalisation of (yet another) mini-existential crisis.
2020 is a year characterised by isolation for many. I'm no exception. At the flat I feel alone and overwhelmed by the task of moving in. At least at the hotel I'd be guaranteed to come across another soul at some point. In pre-COVID circumstances, my mum would have probably paid a visit and helped me unpack. The arbitrary British quarantine puts paid to that. What’s more, I can’t confidently envisage any trips in either direction across the Channel.
Overall, Brussels is definitely a better fit for my personality than Strasbourg. In the end, I’m a Big City girl. Nevertheless, relocating to a new country would always be as daunting as it might be exciting. There are no shortcuts to finding real community. How much more difficult when the world is still navigating a pandemic. I thought I’d made my peace with the reality of it. Not quite. Nine months into 2020 and the weight of the year’s difficulties is starting to drag on my emotions and psyche. As it is for most.
The gently-does-it weekend move goes better than expected, thanks to some insightful podcasts to keep me company. Back at the hotel, my last few days are anticlimactic.
The day of the move itself, I’m up and out early for a bikini wax and to make sure I have a head start before the removal company arrives. Indeed I do. I’m waiting for a good while, in fact, scratching around for things to do. I call the company HQ in France. I’m assured the team is on its way.
I decide to wait downstairs in the lobby, just in case they have trouble locating the building. Whilst waiting, I meet one of my neighbours, Henrik. He’s a disillusioned veteran of the block. He tells me not to expect anything from the tenant management company. The building is old and the walls are thin. The refuse system is a mess. There are no communal bins.
Clearly it’s working for you, if you’re still here.
Henrik says he's still in it for the proximity to the metro. By chance, our offices are in the same neck of the woods.
He’s supposed to be teleworking. He sticks around long enough to tell me where to go shopping in the immediate vicinity.
He also warns that it’s not easy to find the building when travelling by road; even with GPS.
I bid Henrik cheerio and pace outside the building with my trusty podcasts. Close to two hours elapse and no sign. I call the removal company HQ again. A young woman answers this time. I ask for an ETA. She puts me on hold to check. On returning, she explains sheepishly that my goods have been delivered to my office address.
What?! That’s nuts! I’m sure I gave the right details.
I start to think I’m losing my mind. But no. It’s not me, it’s them. They hadn’t updated their system.
I’m mortified. What will my colleagues think?
By the time the mistake is registered, the crew are on their way back to France via Luxembourg. I explain that I’ve already taken two days off work to relocate. I can't afford more time away from work.
I contact my HR team, gabbling my apologies. To my great relief, they are gracious about the mishap. My HR colleague asks when the delivery company will stop by again. The best that can be done is an early afternoon delivery the next day.
I go to a nearby café to use their Wi-Fi. I Skype sis in a panic. As always, she talks me off the ledge, tells me to make the most of the day.
Whilst waiting for the internet technician, I shop for some essentials.
The installation of my Wi-Fi goes so smoothly, I can hardly believe it. Based on past experience, I expected that to be more complicated than the delivery of my belongings. Quelle ironie.
I bid farewell to the lovely technician.
Alone again, naturally.
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