Moving on (Pt. 10)

SANTA CLARA, Calif. Last day (I hope) of being here but not in the apartment. This transient life is wearing on me. Even though I got another library card, from Milpitas, I’m itching to be able to start residing at my home, even if the next week or so will be nothin’ but cartons.

(The Milpitas application, BTW, was quaint: you fill it out on paper, & a library clerk enters it into the system. Paper. In the Silicon Valley. The other two library systems gave me dual cards—one for the wallet & one for the key chain; Milpitas is evidently conserving plastic: I had to choose one or the other.)

Got a call from Whining Joe, the Allied driver. He says everything’s on for tomorrow. I’ll believe it when my household goods are actually in my house & he’s gone.

Moving on (Pt. 9)

SANTA CLARA, Calif. So, my lease started on Friday; picked up the keys, signed a bazillion papers, unloaded my car.

I realized that the place has more room than I’d anticipated; but I’ll still need the storage space I’ve rented on the apartment city campus. I’m going to try living with just eight bookcases out. (I’d planned for only six, but with all the space, I decided to go for eight; that’ll help curb any impulses I might have to buy more furniture.)

The kitchen is problematic—inasmuch as it’s about 33% of what I had in Seattle. I’ve planned for putting about 40% of my kitchen stuff in storage; I hope it’s enough.

Hansen Bros, the Allied agents in Seattle, continue to infuse me with non-warm-&-fuzzy feelings. I’ve told my “move coordinator”, Vicki, twice that I have no confidence in the driver & therefore suggested she have someone from Allied at this end work out how to make the delivery. (I do NOT want Joe to show up on Tuesday, the last day of the spread, & float off in a sea of consternation about how impossible it is to deliver my stuff.

Vicki said it was up to Joe.

In other words: once you’re out of their face, they don’t give a toss.

I collected Pele the Wonder Cat from air cargo Friday afternoon, & set her up in the apartment. When I left she was huddled in the ground floor powder room, trying to look like fake marble countertop. I spent a couple of hours there yesterday, morning & afternoon; she’d moved to the counter of the second bathroom upstairs. By the time I left she’d at least turned around, facing the door.

Today she actually came out when I sat down in the second bedroom to read. She demanded pets for about 40 minutes, & then again when I came by this afternoon. That’s progress; but the turmoil of the move-in (hopefully on Tuesday) will set her back again.

She’ll spend the next six months hiding under my bed.

I found the local Trader Joe’s & Whole Foods. Sadly they’re four miles & nine miles away, respectively. No more impromptu drop-ins to pick up a bit of this or that. I’ll have to plan out my shopping trips & make them last.

I also got library cards for San José & Santa Clara. Still have Mountain View, Milpitas & Sunnyvale to go. With your one address you can get cards in each of the system, but they’ve not advanced to the point where one card gives you reciprocal rights in all systems, as with Fairfax & Loudoun Counties in Virginia. (Washington didn’t do that, either: I had one card for King County Library System & another for Seattle, which is in King County. No crossover.)

AT&T managed to screw up the landline—no dial tone. & you can’t talk to a humanoid, & the automated system gives you your choice of DAY for a technician to come out—as in 0800-1800. “No four-hour appointments for that day.”

I can’t believe there’s an outfit—even AT&T—that makes Comcast look customer-centric. I ditched AT&T after nine years of cellular service—with every contract they managed to charge me more than they’d said, or give me less than they’d promised. If they can’t fix this expeditiously I’ll move to Comcast or just go with my Verizon cell phone.

So, one more day of this-&-that, move-in (I hope to God) & then some mad activity to get myself sorted.

& then—the job search in earnest.

Moving on (Pt. 8)

SANTA CLARA, Calif. I am here—just over the border from my residence for the next ten months in San José. The drive was long and uneventful. It also taught me that the next time I have to go any distance in a car I need satellite radio.

This relocation has involved several hotel stays. I’m four days into it and already I’m sick of them.

I spent Monday at a Holiday Inn Express on N. Aurora Ave. First of all, I think I’d have done better at the Comfort Inn; I know it’s a no-frills place, but they really take that to heart. There was one single ice machine for the entire hotel, although there were vending machines on each of the four floors. The folks at reception wouldn’t give me change for $20—oh, no small bills at all. And I thought their complimentary breakfast was pretty dire until I saw what the Best Western in Medford put out.

Tuesday was the Radisson at Sea-Tac. Not impressed with the housekeeping service (OTC meds wrappers still on the floor from a previous guest), but they had a Sleep Number bed. (Can’t say I noticed anything special about it except that it makes a hell of a racket when you’re puffing it up or deflating it.)

Naturally, they weren’t giving anything away, not even a free cup of coffee.

I really don’t seem to learn my lesson about Best Western hotels in the US: they’re consistently rubbish. I’ve stayed at a number of BWs in France, Italy, Germany and Belgium; they may be at the low end of the three-star category, but they’re always decent and sometimes charming. The ones here give you the sense that you’re staying in a truckstop motel. (And I’ve stayed in those, so I know.)

(I was going to do a symbolic “shake the Seattle dust from my heels” dance at the Washington-Oregon border, but it turns out that you leave Washington and cross into Oregon in the middle of a steel bridge spanning the Columbia River, so I didn’t.)

I hate a hotel that has exterior access, because it means you can’t have your drapes open: people are walking by and can see into your room. I felt like I was spending the night in a cave.

And their “complimentary continental-style breakfast”? A bowl of bananas, coffee, some cold cereal, slices of bread, bagels and dreadful little muffins. Not even any napkins. Also—six whole tables scrunched into a room about 5’ x 10’. Mobbed by the bikers and AARP crowd who seem to be the primary clientele.

Tonight through Monday (thanks to my movers delivering on the last possible day of the spread) I’m at an Embassy Suites in Santa Clara. Interesting business model: the breakfast and evening cocktail reception are free; the Internet access is not.

Tomorrow I sign the lease and install the cat in the new place. If I have time I’m getting a California driver’s license and plates for the car. I’m so ready to be past Washington.

Moving on (Pt. 7)

MEDFORD, Ore. – Well, packers came on Monday & my possessions were loaded yesterday; the Rubicon (or at least the Columbia) has been crossed.

I wonder—does anyone ever have a good experience with interstate movers? I don’t believe I ever have done; at best just bearable & at worse a complete nightmare. This one is leaning toward the former, but we’re in early innings yet.

Allied sent out a team of three to pack, which was a vast improvement over what United did in Virginia. However I had to keep making rounds to check that they were actually packing things. For example, they left a mirror unpacked & only when I asked if the loaders would wrap it in padding did they laboriously use one of the mirror packs they’d brought.

At the end of the day they also managed to use $300 more in cartons than was in the “guaranteed not-to-exceed” farrago of an estimate.

It’s kind of sad to see all your stuff in boxes—even when you think you have become much too materialistic & should cut back by at least 30%. It all looks so…forlorn.

But yesterday it got worse. I saw the semi parked up the street, not moving & blocking any traffic (Seattle streets are hardly worth the designator); they were there for at least 30 minutes. One of the loaders said they got “stuck”—I have no idea what that means, but it doesn’t speak well for the driver’s ability to negotiate a city.

Then there was a SNAFU with the parking permit—they’d put out barricades on Friday, but apparently never registered the permit with the city & the parking enforcement chick who came out because there were a couple of cars parked where the van needed to be couldn’t cite the violators without having confirmation. Took a while for that to get sorted.

Once in progress, the first thing Joe the driver did was whine that my load’s too small. You could see his gears turning, trying to figure out what extras he can tack on to make up for the lack of weight. Oh—I’m moving into a townhouse? With STAIRS? Oh, he’ll have to “hire an extra guy”. Did he have to “hire an extra guy” to pick up my stuff? Or an extra two guys, since I have two staircases?

I showed him the layout of the apartment complex. Oh, don’t think he can get IN there; have to be a shuttle. (Offload the stuff at a warehouse & onto a smaller van. Of course at extra cost.) At the very best it’s a “long walk”, the way it was to pick up from my place.

Moreover, my delivery is scheduled for the 17th, which is the very last day of the spread they gave me. Seems Joe’s hanging around Seattle until Friday to pick up his next load. So I have an extra three days of faffing about San José with nothing constructive to do.

But the part that just leaves me gobsmacked was when he started asking me how to get to my new place. I’m not talking finding the unit, I’m talking finding a route to the street. The exaggerated look of dismay & confusion on his face was un-freaking-believable.

(I called the “move coordinator” to inquire as to whether their drivers don’t have GPS or even maps. She said they’re independent contractors & not all have GPS; but implied that they should have maps. When I said Joe didn’t seem to have them, she said she’d pull some out & make sure he had them before he leaves. God give me strength.)

Between the disdain for my paltry load & his cluelessness about delivery, I’m really not getting a warm & fuzzy feeling for this guy. The one thing I know is that my moving tsuris is not over.

Moving on (Pt. 6)

Seattle is biting my butt all the way to the end.

Because there aren’t enough tranquilizers in the world (human or animal) to get me to drive 900 miles with a crying cat in my car, I arranged to board Pele for the time my household goods are being packed & picked up, as well as the three more days until I take possession of my new apartment.

Understand, I’m paying handsomely for the service.

Plan (confirmed) was to take Pele to an animal hospital yesterday, between 0700 & 0900 to drop her off. There would be a vet tech there during that time (& then later in the afternoon) to receive her. I was to call her mobile number when I got there & she’d come out & let us in.

So imagine my reaction when I arrived as planned, at 0700, to find no one there. In fact, Ashley was in Yakima, a four-hour drive from Seattle. & whoever was taking her place wasn’t due to be there until 0830. So they had a different plan from the one I’d confirmed with the pet shipping service.

At first Ashley didn’t seem to feel any sense of urgency, but she did persevere & eventually someone drifted in about 0745. My confidence wasn’t raised much, however, when she seemed surprised when I handed over Pele’s health certificate. “Do we take this?”

Uh, yeah—else how do the airlines know she’s certified healthy & able to travel?

Well, okay, done—only losing me about 30 minutes in a day that was supposed to be devoted to de-staging & organizing my stuff for the packers today.

I had this well in progress when my agent called to tell me someone wanted to show the house between 1300 & 1430, which is kind of a long window. Er, okay—but you did understand that the house is no longer going to look as staged? & I have a lot of work to do to prep for the packers? I did mention this several times over the past week.

Then she called a bit later to say someone else wanted to show between 1130 & 1230, but “you don’t have to leave until they get there.”

Good thing, because they never showed.

Actually I’m not entirely happy with my agent—we had a second showing on Saturday & the showing agent had said there might be an offer. My realtor hasn’t followed up, nor has she done so with a couple of other agents who indicated more than passing interest in the place.

&, when I said that the place will need a cleaning on Wednesday, after my possessions are out of here, her response was, “Don’t you have a vacuum cleaner?”

Well, yeah—which will be packed & on its way to San José.

Oh.

By contrast, my agent in Virginia made the process of selling my house painless--he managed everything, including repairs, negotiating with contractors, communications with my tenants. I really wish he could be managing this process.

She suggested she might be able to get her cleaner to do it—however, this is the woman who was supposed to have come out to give my place a thorough cleaning back in June, for putting it on the market. Aside from being the yackiest woman I’ve ever met (a five-minute conversation went on for 23), she seemed looking for the main chance. She said she charges $20/hour; then later in the conversation, it grew to $20-$25/hour.

Oooookay. But then when the Saturday came for her to show up, I got a call from her right around the appointed time saying that she was running late. Instead of being there at 1345, she might not be there until around 1800. “But I don’t mind staying late until the job is done.”

Well, I do. I rescheduled for the next day, but once again got a call from her saying she’d be late. I told her to forget it & spent a few hours doing it myself. She obviously doesn’t understand the concept of customer service.

So when Jenny said she might get this flake to come out, my first thought was, this needs to be done immediately after I move out; this woman has no sense of urgency. Plus, Jenny told me she charges $15/hour—so her $20-$25/hour quoted in June was just her shot at opportunism.

Then, Jenny said that it turns out the cleaner is “afraid of going into Seattle”.

Well, then why would you suggest her if she’s already shown herself to be a flake, & she’s “afraid” of Seattle. Mine can’t be the first vacated house on the market needing cleaning—don’t agents have connections with services for this? All it needs is vacuuming, dusting & cleaning the mirrors.

I’m meeting my agent this evening; I’ll see what we can nail down. But, this being Seattle, I have low expectations & I’m sure they’ll be met.

Moving on (Pt. 5)

When you move you really can’t escape filing a change of address with the US Postal Service. Unless all you want to receive in your mail box is pre-approved credit card offers—those clowns seem to be able to find you in any circumstances. (I imagine that they & insects will be the only survivors of a nuclear holocaust.)

If you go online, which presumably completely automates the process, thus saving both labor & resources, it turns out that you have to pay $1.00 for making their lives easier. & they don’t mention this charge until you’ve already gone through the entire process of filling out your details. You think you’re done & up pops a screen saying that to verify your identity they need a credit card number…& they have to charge you the buck.

Well, that pissed me off, & since I had to go to a post office to mail a parcel anyhow, I decided I’d use the old-fashioned method: fill out their little postcard, with free postage.

Only these days, because they obviously don’t WANT you doing that; you have to go up to a counter & ask for the card. It’s not available amongst the other forms (including the vacation mail hold forms); you have to wrestle it out of a humanoid. & they’re clearly trained to discourage you—“Oh, you don’t want to do it online?”

It’s like buying condoms, or (these days) Benadryl.

It should come as no surprise from an organization that keeps upping the cost of postage (except for junk mailers like pre-approved credit card issuers) every 17 months & is talking about eliminating Saturday mail deliveries along with the next increase. But I find it really annoying that they use what’s already a cost-saving process to suck more money out of us. & I'm happy to do what little I can to foil them.

Moving on (Pt. 4)

I decided when I quit my job that I’d do a spa experience as a symbol of really sloughing off the crap I’ve been through for the past two years. So today I went to the Olympus Spa in Lynnwood for the “paradise package”: body scrub, body wrap & massage.

The scrub was worth the trip; I’m less enthusiastic about the wrap & massage. The wrap is supposed to detoxify you, but I’m not wild about being encased in plastic & goo. It’s kind of like an MRI without the atomic-powered woodpeckers.

& when it comes to massage, I don’t want some pouffy New Age laying on of hands. I want a shiatsu—something that’s going to find the real problem points &give them a Brooklyn shove out of me.

This particular place is Korean, & had multiple “earth energy” rooms, as well as soaking pools of differing temperatures. Kind of like the old Roman bath’s caldarium, tepidarium & frigidarium. Dunno about the purported benefits of the various rooms, but I do have to say that I was pretty much al dente by the time I left, & that really can’t be a bad thing.

While I was out there was another showing of my house. Since I’m scheduled to be on the road out of here a week from today I’m really hoping that this one will elicit an offer.

Meanwhile, I’m really clean, possibly carrying around fewer toxins & may sleep well tonight.

Moving on (Pt. 3)

In the category of no good deed ever going unpunished, last November I took on the temporary care of a cat belonging to one of the thousands of fellow employees. Scott quit the company & was moving back to Scotland; he needed someone to look after Fell for six months after a rabies test, so she wouldn’t have to spend time quarantined in a UK kennel.

The Brits call this the Pet Travel Scheme; essentially it means that the animal can spend the six-month quarantine period in your home after both vaccination & testing for rabies. The plan was for Fell to stay with me & then Scott would either return her to collect her or arrange to have her shipped to him. (He appealed to a group of employees on a cats email list; I was the only idiot to respond.)

It hasn’t been a totally felicitous time, as Fell didn’t like my permanent cat, Pele; so I had to keep Fell in the office when I wasn’t around. However, it was temporary, right?

Well, around May, when arrangements should have been made for the travel, I couldn’t raise Scott. No reply to any of my emails. I had to do some Internet sleuthing to find what I thought might be a phone number & have a friend of mine in England call him before he came online late June.

Oh, yes; still planning to get Fell. He’d start the machine turning…

Only next day I received a different communication: well, it’s going to cost $2500, & he can’t afford it…

Uh, that would have been good information to have before he made the grand plans last fall & roped me into caring for her.

The end result is that today I took Fell back to Meow, the shelter she was adopted from & surrendered her back to their care. So I’m the one who essentially abandoned her. She didn’t deserve that, & I feel really lousy that I’m the one she associates with it. (I just couldn’t keep her in my new place & this was never supposed to be a permanent arrangement—I was meant to be helping out for a while.)

Plus, Meow has at least six black cats I could see—Fell’s going to be one of many competing for attention.

Another Seattle event I want to forget about.

Moving on (Pt. 2)

Ah, Seattle—turns out that once you start trash pick-up service from the city, the only way it ever stops is if the house is demolished. (& since it’s linked to the water and sewer service, ditto for them.)

So the only way I can stop paying for it is when I have a name to transfer it into. That, of course, requires having someone to buy my house, so not yet.

However, here’s a particularly Seattleite twist: for the privilege of not having pick-up service, I can pay $6.85 per month.

I don’t know how they arrived at that figure, but it’s better than what I do pay now; & there's no point in asking a functionary why they're doing what they're doing.

Can’t wait to get out of this burg.

Moving on (Pt. 1)

Turns out Seattle is almost as much of a pain to move out of as it is to move in. I wasted two weeks on trying to get one of the local agents for Allied Van Lines (Western, if you want to avoid them, which I recommend) to answer some questions so I could book the move. Even after phone conversations with the owner (“Oh, this is unacceptable, I’ll talk with him.”), the rep couldn’t be arsed to call me back.

Then it turns out that “guaranteed not-to-exceed” estimates aren’t really. The estimator can give you one for ## pounds; & if the driver picking up the load decides it’s too low, he can throw a hissy fit & they’ll demand the dreaded change-order. Plus, there’s the all-purpose moving van company CYA: any further charges are COD at destination.

Of course they are.

(Finally something to make me appreciate what my Seattle employer picked up by way of moving costs. I’m sure they were charged beyond the beyond—even with whatever corporate rates they wrenched out of their provider.)

I’ve got another company booked, & I’m now waiting for the packing day on the 9th. Because my house is still showing, I can’t really do a lot by way of major organization—moving things around would make it look like I live here & screw up the staging.

I’m also trying to eat up stuff in the fridge & freezer, without actually cooking—because, again, cooking would create disturbance in the Fabric of the Stage. This isn’t a problem with berries or bread; but the lamb chops & the fish are a bit of a challenge.

Well, I just keep looking at it all as the price of the ticket out of here.