A Year

A year has passed since I moved to Connecticut. It was in the first week of June in 2011 that we shoved into our two cars the last of our worldly good, wrestled the two cats into their carriers, and drove out of Michigan toward a new destination. When we arrived, it was after midnight, the cats (and I) were on the verge of nervous breakdowns, and I found myself stumbling into an unfamiliar apartment I’d never seen before, that was intended to be temporary for a couple of months.

I knew the anniversary of the move was rolling around, earlier this month; I had it in mind to write some kind of commemorative essay. Then it arrived, and slipped away—because I simply didn’t really know what to say. Could I write a glowing summary in which I declare that everything is peachy and I am a contented Nutmegger at peace with nature and the world around me? It wouldn’t be all that convincing. Could I write a scathing condemnation of my new home state and everyone in it, and claim that I hate it here? Well, I’m such a cranky old coot sometimes that if I focused on the traffic and the cost of living, I could probably manage to whip up a little something. But it wouldn’t be even half honest. Because I love my new locale.

I’ve noted several times that leaving Michigan often feels like waking up after a long and bad night’s sleep, from one of those grim and endless dreams that seems so real when you’re tossing and turning from it that coming to consciousness feels like sweet relief. It hasn’t hurt that the state has gone completely crazypants since I’ve left. At least in Connecticut I’m pretty sure one can say vagina without being censured.

No, I really love it here. I love being able to walk a short distance into my little two-block downtown area to grab a bite to eat or for a quick trip to the drugstore. I love looking outside and seeing green in every direction. I love that all I have to do is throw on my sunglasses and drive a mile down the road on which I live and I’m at the beach. I love that everything here is so unrelentingly pretty that it makes my eyes ache, no matter the season. I didn’t get any of that in industrial Detroit, with its endless grim winters and its abrupt transition from fleece blanket weather into the height of summer.

I love being only two dozen miles from the center of Manhattan, and being able to hop onto a train at whim to partake of it. I love spending an afternoon reading in Central Park, or hanging out at the Met, or catching a show on a whim.

I love the food here. Even at some cheaper places I’ve had some amazing meals in the city, and the Connecticut pizza at places like Colony Pizza or Frank Pepe’s is crazy-good. The Indian food? Fantastic. Thai food? It sucks. New York and Connecticut, you don’t know. But it gives me an excuse to keep going to Thai restaurants and keep trying. And I’ve made friends. I have friends in the city I enjoy seeing, and new people in the area I’m glad to know. If I walk into a bar for karaoke night, I’m sure to come away with a couple of new names to remember, and some good conversations. I like my church family and friends—and there’s a sentence I didn’t think I’d ever be typing out.

No, there’s too much I love here and in which I wallow, grateful for having the experience, for me to pretend not to like it. The opportunities here are so much richer and deeper than they ever could have been in Michigan, and I find myself perpetually amazed at some of the things I find myself doing and taking for granted. Experientially, I seem to have been through so much more here than I would have in another year in Michigan.

Even though I look back and think that I’ve done so much in the last year, I simultaneously feel as if I’ve accomplished so little. We still live in the apartment that was intended to be temporary, with eighty percent of our stuff in storage. The compromises I made when it seemed as if we’d only be here for a few months—unpacking only one cookie pan so that I wouldn’t have to pack them all again, or assuming I’d be in a permanent place by the time I needed winter hats or blankets or my snow shoes or the second payment stub book for my car (I don’t know where the hell that thing is), or leaving the TV’s sound system in its boxes thinking that I could make do with the television’s internal speakers for a little while—now seem like major inconveniences.

Craig had a whole year ahead of me to get accustomed to this place; it was old hat to him by the time we sold our house and I joined him. Learning to navigate here has been painful and slow to me. I started in very slow concentric circles, going no further on my own from the house than I could walk. Then I could manage to get to the supermarket down the road, and to Stew Leonard’s, and to Trader Joe’s, but anything more complicated baffled me. I’ve gradually incorporated more locations into my driving repertoire, and have earned the insouciance with which I can toss off casual references to the various exit numbers along I-95, but damn, has it been a slow process of accumulation. I can plot a route between two spots in New York City in my mental MTA subway map more quickly than I can figure out how to get anywhere in Connecticut.

Having to reconstruct a social network, and having to figure out where and what to do here, and having to learn all over again how to get there to do it—all at the same time—has sometimes just seemed so overwhelming. I’ve often let it cloud the fact that I am going places, and doing things, and trying new experiences in abundance.

It’s been a good year. It’s been a rough year. It’s been a long year. It’s only been a year. All of those, all in equal and in varying measure, all at the same time.