Moving day. Again.

This might be the slowest move in modern history. Three months ago exactly, there was packing up at our house, which was, itself, at the end of a long stream of moving activities which culminated in the closing of a container and the boarding of an airplane. It’s hard to believe, from this perch on the 7:48 train, looking out over rocky shore and pounding waves, with sunrise-apricot clouds over stormy grey sea, that three months ago I lived in a city, and the sea was something I saw on holidays.

Last night was a magical example of why we moved. Michael and I caught a slightly early train home because we were needing to cook dinner for a crowd. P and J were coming over with two “English chums” (P and J are English) in NZ for holiday. Michael and I hoofed it down Willis Street, Michael cracking jokes about the futility of my speed for a train we’d never catch. And then, breathless, we caught our train (but not early enough to snag seats for the first leg) and talked about our days while we moved out of the city, past the harbour with the mountains in the background, through the long tunnels, and then past the hills and the farmland (yesterday noticed that some of the farmed animals are deer—always a surprise) and to the coast. We walked up Sand Track from the train, and then down to the beach to walk along the sand to our street. I took off sandals and splashed in the Tasman, watched children playing in the surf, and looked for shells in the block we spent on the sand. Then up to relieve the babysitter and cook dinner for the crew. Dinner was on the front deck, talking with activists and environmentalists from the UK (P and J included). We like P and J more each time we see them (which is often) and loved the stories of their friends, the tales from England and from travelling through the South Island.

When we had finished our cookies and tea in the near-dark, Keith showed up for the Little Move (leg number three in the four part moving process). The Brits all stayed to help as we moved every bit of borrowed furniture into the garage, for transport in stages back to the rightful owners. Keith had come Sunday and measured and planned, and he packed the garage efficiently so that it could be joined by all the mass of stuff coming today. And we moved borrowed furniture with new friends and visitors, and we laughed and turned our little house into an empty shell again, the small bits of newly purchased furniture scattered vaguely through rooms.

And now I’m off to work, leaving Michael at home to coordinate the move, to decide where rugs get unrolled, to have the first thrill of seeing the furniture arrive (now that I’ve typed this sentence, I’m sorely tempted to get off at Porirua and go back home again!). I’ll wait anxiously at work and finally head home to see what’s been done, and then spend the rest of the week unpacking.

We’re nervous about how things are going to go with this move, worried about whether our furniture will have made it through the voyage safely, concerned that everything will look terrible in this little cottage, that things will be broken and that our miserable moving company will be as bad about insurance as they were about every other piece of the process (train full now, everyone from Plimmerton standing). And we also spend a whole lot less time worrying than we ever have before, so this fretting feeling is uncommon for us here.

This weekend, we have fallen even more deeply in love with our live here in this village. On Friday, I stayed home and wrote during the day, and then headed to pick up the kids from school. Naomi brought a friend home, and we all went into the village centre (about 15 minute walk, Aidan speed). Aidan got his hair cut at the newly-opened village salon, and we walked home on the sand, the girls hoisting their bikes down the steps and over the rocks onto the beach, Aidan and I being airplanes in the wind. We played with a tennis ball one of the girls found in the rocks, and the girls splashed through the shallows, spraying themselves from head to toe with little bits of sand. I realised, running along the beach making zooming noises with Aidan, that I had travelled all the way to New Zealand to learn to be a 6 year-old. Dinner was going to be late, and I didn’t care. Naomi and her friend were filthy and I didn’t care. The house was a mess and—guess what—I didn’t care. I just wanted to play with the children on the long grey beach in the hot sun.

Saturday we went into Wellington (and took the videos in the previous blog). We wondered what it would be like to have the option of living either in a lovely clean, safe city OR living 40 minutes outside of it on the ocean in the US. We couldn’t even imagine. Sunday we did errands and then went to the beach. I napped on the sand while Aidan built sand castles (really, whole sand cities) and Naomi and Michael boogie-boarded. Then, after Michael and I swam together, home to shower and change and head to St. Peter’s Hall, the tiny little hall in town, Trish and Keith had told us about a small and spectacular salsa band playing that night. There were lessons beforehand for those of us who know nothing and then the band began. The children raced on and off the dance floor, in and out of the building. The music was spectacular—really talented Cuban and Kiwi musicians. There were couples our age and 40 years older, straight couples, lesbian couples, good dancers and bad. We danced for a couple of hours and then came home through the cool night to watch the moon, bright enough to block out part of the Milky Way.

And now I’m here at work, my view of the hill and the harbour, the window open to the hot sun and city noises, and my day stretching ahead of me (the container has arrived and is being unpacked as I type—there’ll be pictures on this blog tonight). I miss my family and my friends at home so deeply that I feel it in my toes, a deep, aching longing. And life here is so beautiful and filled with so many joys that it’s hard to believe I actually get to live it each day. Another day in paradise.