Marriage, divorce, death, changing jobs, moving house — these are supposed to be the most stressful events in our human lives. If this is true, I wonder, why do some of us move so often? A change of pace, a new view, a larger kitchen, a calmer neighborhood, an upgrade, a downsizing — whatever the reason, those of use who are not averse to moving house find ourselves, every few years, wrapping dishes and taping boxes and cursing ourselves for our wanderlust. The others, well, they stay in the same home year after year, decade after decade, accumulating stuff and forgetting what exactly they have stowed in back closets and deep pantries. Sometimes I envy them.
I envied them last week, when I watched my earthly possessions — my bed, my sofas, my armoires — crank slowly skyward on a monte-meuble, which is a sort of cross between a firemen's ladder and an elevator, and which is used frequently in Paris for accessing apartments in tall buildings with narrow staircases and miniscule elevators.
The sofas, the dishes, the family photos — it all went up, past three stories of apartments and then in through my living room window. Home again! For now . . .