reduce, reuse, recycle, reship

Packing for a move is difficult, emotionally and physically, in a particular but consistent way. The overcast, drizzly days have made the typically sunny summer move even harder. As my room empties and reveals the plainness of stripped walls and torn patches of paint, as the hallway swells with bursting reused boxes painstakingly packed to exact Belgian and Dutch weight limits, my room feels less and less like home. I have no comfortable and secure place on Earth, and ahead of me is a dark wall past which I haven't had the time to speculate.

I've done it all more than ten times; packing myself out of 65 to move to Belgium was by far the worst. In comparison, I've got a considerable head start and not very much in my possession here. So why doesn't it get easier each time? It's a Saturday night, and loneliness sets in as I realize I don't have the time, energy, or money to go out. I think of JR and Andrea arriving today in Denver from Spokane, and he and sadness prove so indelibly associated that I find myself dwelling on him for no apparent reason except to justify the gloom. In the meantime, Elvo preps for his last R/C race of the summer--the one I was finally planning to attend--and I'm out of free time because of my flight change. It's terrible to not get to see someone you're close to doing what they love best.

Cycling was my antidote of choice, and it helped, albeit under a threatening sky. After surreptitiously leaving European travel books on his bookshelf, I took off along the north bank of the River Dijle (the road less traveled by [me]) and made my way down a surprisingly deserted path beneath the overpasses. When I retraced my tracks, five rabbits with white tails disappeared into the bushes, satisfying my hope to see wildlife outside my front door for a last time. And then I crossed to the south bank, saw the highway lights go on, and realized that they glow pink for several minutes before warming to yellow. It hardly sounds important, but those endless rows of bright yellow lights in the night became my first symbol of Belgium three years ago. On my last days here, that symbol has been transformed.

To my surprise, the "hanging gardens" under the three overpasses were lit in tungsten. I biked through twice. The river had completely risen over the plants (from which I derived my nickname of the place) sprouting from old wooden supports in the water, and the reflection of the highway underside in the water created an asymmetrical, deceptively solid concrete volume from whose shore I could gaze up and down. It had the atmosphere of a gaping American parking structure at night, but abstracted, unreal, rippling. I'm glad I saw this before leaving: The hanging gardens in another of its infinite moods.

Back to more hours of packing! *packpackpack* [Tom quote]. The Dutch postal system is way goedkoper than the Belgian system, offering the services we Americans were looking for in May but couldn't find. There is media mail for nearly half the price of normal packages and there is zeepost for the crates you don't mind having put on a giant boat under many other crates for weeks to months. I would rent a car to drive to the Roosendaal TPG Post, but wouldn't that nearly negate the money I'd save? We'll see what I can do about that.