Monday, 10:45am. I'm listening to music, trying to calm my acid stomach and the stress that had plagued me every morning for the past few days. Moving is a stressful thing, even without professional movers, a company that will pay your way, and wonderful, wonderful friends and family supporting you the entire way. Makes me give extreme props to those who do it on their own.
My doorbell rings and outside my door stand two Swedish men. My movers. Right on time (well, actually, a little bit early).
Within a few minutes time they start dismantling my home, Oksa. The place where I have lived these not-quite 11 months and dared to call my home.
I try to figure out a way to help them and they say I can put things into boxes, but it's clear they have a system and I'm just getting in the way, so I awkwardly stand aside and let them pack. The only thing I can contribute is to tell them what not to pack/leave behind and maybe what should be sealed a little better. Other than that I just stand to the side, have short conversations (one of them speaks English better than the other) and check my phone every once in awhile.
And before I know it, slightly less than 4 hours have passed and they're done. My apartment is completely empty except for the extreme amount of dust bunnies and hair my removed possessions have left behind and it is my turn to clean. It takes me less than 2 hours. Within an hour of that my landlord comes and checks me out and I'm through.
Oksa is empty. It's like I never lived here. And it's strange to think that I have. Because so much has happened here. So many wonderful memories. A lifetime's worth, in just 11 months.
So here is a photo homage to Oksa. Both in its lived-in state, and finally, in its empty state. I hope the Hungarian girl who moves into it next (she moved in a few days after I moved all of my stuff out, that's how swift the transformation was) enjoys it as much as I did. It was a wonderful place of residence.
And then empty: