Instead of the Sears Tower, the landmark structure here is the Niagara Mohawk building, a piece of Art Deco architecture that houses the power company.
Instead of shopping along North Michigan Avenue, consumers flock to the Carousel Center, an enclosed mall on the outskirts of town. Instead of roughing it at Soldier Field watching the Bears, I’m gazing down at the Syracuse Orangemen in a domed stadium.
Toto, we’re not in Chicago anymore.
When my husband accepted a new job here, I thought relocation would be a cinch. After spending 13 years in Chicago, I was more than ready for a change of pace. I had written about domestic and international relocation, so I was familiar with the pluses and pitfalls.
Besides, how hard could it be to adjust to a mid-size city after living in a bustling metropolis more than ten times larger?
So much for arrogant urban attitudes. It didn’t take long to discover that relocation is no snap, no matter where you go and how ideal the circumstances.
And even if you’re lucky enough to have the benefit of counsel from a realty or relocation firm, your journey will still be fraught with potholes.
Breaking the news
“So what about Syracuse?” asks my husband a few weeks ago, after thumbing through a broadcast trade publication and eying the `Employment opportunities’ section.
We had been thinking about moving for some time, but the original idea was to head to a warmer climate. Although we remain thirtysomething spry, the Chicago winters were already taking a toll on us.
“Sure. Why not?” I answer, enjoying my husband’s startled look. For I had been lobbying for Charlotte or Charleston Ever since reading “Gone With the Wind” in grade school, I have had this obsession with the South. Atlanta had been high on my hit city list until the Olympics drew closer and density became a turn-off.
“Have you ever been to Syracuse,” he asked.
“No. But I knew a guy in college who did his undergrad work there. He liked it.” Syracuse had two things going for it, as far as I was concerned: it was smaller and, more importantly, it was a different part of the country. My life had been immersed in the Midwest, primarily Illinois and Indiana. Four years in Missouri during college hadn’t exactly satiated my Scarlett O’Hara hunger.
So, my husband made the call, flew to Syracuse, and, eventually, got the job offer.
Since we were renting, we didn’t face the hassle of selling property, but we had recently signed a one-year lease on a new apartment. Fortunately, the property management firm tore up the contract. Unfortunately, they kept our security deposit.
After giving notice at work, we began to spread the news. Disclosure became one stumbling block that I hadn’t anticipated, but I quickly learned that who gets told and in what order is a delicate matter.
Some people were less interested in when we were moving than in when we found out we were going to move.
I began to realize that these friends/relatives/colleagues would calculate their place on our totem pole of friendship based on how long it took me to tell them the news.
Another dilemma: everyone wants to get together with you to say goodbye. The reality, for us at least, was little time–or energy–to be social butterflies. We had about two weeks, from the time Scott got the job offer, to get ourselves to Syracuse. Days were hectic as we tried to finish projects at our current jobs while trying to make moving arrangements. Evenings were consumed by packing, our new recreational activity.
Packing it in
I am no rookie when it comes to relocating across town.
Until moving into my last apartment in Chicago, I had changed addresses almost every year. Ditto for my husband. But somehow marriage has transformed us from carefree gypsies into bonafide couch potatoes. Not only did we linger in that apartment for three years, but we accumulated a lot of stuff. Taking stock of my possessions, I could see that My days of tossing items into a few Hefty bags for cross-town transporation were over.
Packing preparations commenced immediately. We made not one, but three trips to the nearest rent-a-truck station. (By the way, if you really want to get depressed, try hanging out in one of those places. I’ve never seen such haggard, pale, disoriented individuals as those lined up at the counter. Terror gripped my heart that I might soon become one of these zombies.)
However, my husband consoled me that all would go smoothly because we had professional movers. This later proved to be a myth that ranks right up there with the Tooth Fairy.)
After amassing enough boxes, it didn’t take long to reduce our apartment to complete chaos.
In the beginning, I tried to maintain control of the situation by adopting a highly structured approach to packing. Armed with a stack of white labels and different color-marking pens, I wrote a detailed description of each box’s contents, including what room it should be placed in once we reached our final destination.
But, as things wore on, I spent more time misplacing and relocating my labels than I did filling boxes. And my penmanship became practically illegible. Abandoning organization, I embraced the “stuff-it-and-seal-it-no-questions-asked” style of packing.
“What’s in here?” Scott asked, trying to organize our corrugated kingdom.
“I don’t know. It’s one of the Mystery Boxes.”
“Mystery Boxes,” he repeated. “Do we win a prize if we guess the contents before opening?”
“Something like that.”
Ironically, the more progress we made, the more disoriented we became. We began to refer to the apartment as “the War Zone.”
We began eating out more and more frequently–not because the kitchen was packed, but because we wanted to escape the War Zone.
Breaking the trail
Moving day arrived under cloudy skies, and showers began, appropriately enough, the exact moment our movers arrived, and didn’t let up until we got to Syracuse. The storm front decided to accompany us the entire way. I felt a little like Noah’s wife.
Scott’s new employer had offered to put us up for two months in a hotel suite, while we looked for permanent housing. This was comforting as it eliminated a frantic scrabble for shelter.
Yet, for some reason, the idea of having a temporary address haunted me. I was worried about setting up a checking account and receiving mail. And what about a library card?
As it turned out, it was no big deal. Banks seem happy to get your money, wherever you live. And the post office (surprise, surprise) has managed to forward all my correspondence, including some bills I was hoping to elude.
Accommodations were a pleasant surprise, although after driving 13 hours in the rain, a dry pup tent would have looked good. We were booked into a hotel near Syracuse University, although our actual quarters were next door in a turn-of-the-century apartment building that had been renovated and was being used to house the hotel’s long-term guests.
Our one-bedroom apartment had high ceilings, hardwood floors, Oriental rugs and furniture from the nearby Stickley Co. Being a fan of vintage buildings and dreading the thought of being caged in a contemporary hotel room for two months, I was ecstatic.
Getting your bearings
After a good night’s sleep, the exhaustion fades–and true disorientation begins. Stress doesn’t end when you reach your final destination. It simply changes form.
Deciding to move to a new city was no big deal, but driving in one was. After more than a decade of living in Chicago, where I walked most of the time, I was pretty rusty behind the wheel.
Not only that, but the streets in Syracuse seemed far more confusing than Chicago’s easy-to-master grid system. Roads here wind, angle unexpectedly and sometimes turn into streets with new names. Highways are equally frustrating in that exits are spaced far apart. Miss a turn-off and you’re out of luck. During our first week in Syracuse, I think we established a new world’s record for illegal U-turns.
On the plus side, traffic is virtually non-existent. If motorists have to wait twice for a light to change, that’s considered the height of traffic jam.
Traveling down the aisles of strange grocery stores can be just as unsettling as driving on unfamiliar roads. Where I once zipped down aisles and flung items into my cart with little deliberation, I inched along. Nothing was where I expected it to be and I couldn’t find many of the brands I used to buy. By the time I loaded groceries in the car, I was ready for a stiff drink. Or at least a nice glass of wine.
Easier said than done. New York state has different liquor laws–only beer and wine coolers (puh-lease) can be sold in grocery stores. And stores selling wine and hard liquor can’t sell beer or mixers. I have located a wine store but have to borrow the car and drive there, which is a lot of effort for a little vino. Due to these logistical difficulties, I am embracing a new and drier lifestyle. A sobering thought.
Learning our lessons
It’s been almost a month now, and we’re a lot more at home in–and with–Syracuse. Some days we even leave the apartmentment without our maps.
Relocation is no panacea. Although you are able to escape some problems, others creep into your suitcase and follow you. And, of course, there are plenty of new ones to solve.
What relocation does provide is a change of pace and a new perspective.
More importantly, it induces a heightened sense of ingenuity and independence. Forced into a survival mode, you become far more flexible than you thought possible.
It’s sort of like going to the gym and working out. It hurts the next day, but the results are worth the effort.
