Moving again

Some things were never made to move. Like my big, filthy green coat– filthy because it is as hard to wash as it is to pack. Consequently, when I wear it, I look like I’ve been sleeping rough. And it’s useless to me in Burundi.

But it’s warm. And it will come in handy in Quebec. So maybe I should just put it in the post and send it to my parents, along with a pile of books that will come in handy when I’m back home working on my masters’ project but will be of very limited usefulness before then. But how am I going to put it in the post? So maybe I’ll just take the coat, remove my Quebec City bus pass along with the inevitable pens, five-cent coins and six-month-old grocery store receipts, and put the coat itself in a rubbish bag. I have coats. Somewhere.

I love the excitement of going off to a new place. But oh, do I hate moving.

The colleagues from Quebec who I arrived with have all left on internship. One is in Poland, the other in India. The two Belgians who were with us in the fall have gone back to their hometowns for the summer; the French girl who became part of our little pod has gone back to Bretagne. Their absence leaves some weirdly shaped voids, like missing teeth. Why don’t I invite Marie for coffee– oh wait, Marie’s gone.

Some people I know have decided to use a defense mechanism– not make friends in a new place so as not to lose them when they leave. I think that’s absurd. I have made some friends here, and I’m relieved about it– if not, I’d be going crazy in this dark, moth-infested attic (OK, there are worse problems than moths, but when you’ve lost two sweaters, it kind of gets frustrating). My phone has finally started to ring regularly. Sometimes it’s my Romanian classmate and her French roommate who always manage to find a party somewhere– in case you were wondering, that was what I got a French degree for, to sit around drinking red wine into the early hours with a bunch of Romanians, talking about anything and everything until someone slips up and says “beau cul” (nice arse) instead of “beaucoup” ( a lot). I also have another friend, a Burundian poet, who loves to take long aimless walks until he ends up in the next town.

Long and aimless….a bit like this rambling blog entry, which is really just another way of putting off the inevitable packing. I hate moving.

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About msmarguerite

Young Quebec City-based freelance journalist. once and future nomad. I blog about life, about travel, about things I notice and every so often about work. I enjoy language learning, singing, swing dancing, skating and...other stuff, sometimes. My heart is somewhere in East Africa, Haiti or Eastern Europe. English, français, русский, malo slovensko, un poco de espanol, um pouco de português ndiga ikirundi, mwen ap aprann kreyòl...
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One Response to Moving again

  1. Mika says:

    1- You rock!
    2- For the sweaters, plastic bags? Or do the moths get in anyhow?

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