I would like to think that I am the kind of person who does not hold a grudge, but I am finding that not to be the case. I feel a certain sense of indignation, though I’m too sheepish about it to feel righteous indignation. “Jeezus,” I exclaimed, while sticking a fork in my seared scallops. “I sure hope the new owner gets along with her neighbor. I wish I didn’t feel so, I don’t know…” I said. B. compared it to a stressful situation he’s currently in. “No, no, I get it,” he said. “If you’re going to be involved in this kind of emotionally draining relationship, you want to at least be dating the person.”
Yes, you want to be getting something out of, sex, money, fame, not just a lingering feeling of bitterness. I was a little sad as we stood in my empty ex-condo last weekend looking at the coffee with cream colored paint that I did not pick, looking at the perfect kitchen that I did pick, looking at the, wow, that bedroom was quite tiny! I remembered my old neighbors, sitting on the front steps with them drinking coffee, troubleshooting our shared wifi connection, feeding their cat, being, you know, neighborly. All that has been replaced with faded exasperation.
Early yesterday evening, my new neighbor to the East dropped by. “Hey, I wanted to apologize. I forgot to tell you guys – I meant to and I just spaced – about the chimney repair. It was really dusty and I meant to warn you and I’m really sorry about that.” I wanted to hug him, but we’ve just met so that seemed inappropriate. I was so grateful for the gesture, even a day late, for the acknowledgment that something going on right next to our house might affect us, that it might be marginally our business that a guy was running a sandblaster outside my office window. “Thank you SO much,” I said, probably confusing him with the enthusiasm of my thanks. He told us that the neighbors behind him recently did an addition to their home. “I’ll bet you wanted to kill them,” I said. “Yeah, pretty much,” he agreed.
In the morning I hear the school buses go past. On sunny days I hear the little guy next door out playing in the yard. I hear the truck across the alley start up and rumble out, and later, rumble back again. There’s the noise of a weedwhacker, a lawn mower, a hedge trimmer on the weekends, over there. Little airplanes fly over our house, pleasure craft, not passenger jets. I don’t hear anyone coming and going, talking on the phone, playing music, making midnight snack. I heard those things when I loved my neighbors, but I didn’t mind them until I didn’t love them.
I tried to wash down the resentment with chianti. My lovely little ex-home, where we returned late at night to cake and champagne and friends after we got married in Hawaii. The back garden where sometimes, on summer afternoons, BBQing guests would invite me to join them for dinner. Where the windows and doors were always wide open to the outside. Where a very cute puppy played in the garden and grew up, but didn’t lose his spring. Things change, I know. Blinds went in and stayed down, doors remained firmly shut to the outside. The puppy was banished from the garden for being too springy, my bike and my little Weber grill were banished from the back porch for being too unaesthetic. Eventually, I banished myself for being too, what? Disappointed, maybe?
I have a fabulous new home. The feeling of pleasure I take in that lives side by side with the grudge. I should give the grudge a name and just imagine it living up at the old place, not here with me. “Oh, the grudge? It lives up on Cap Hill, you know, in my old place. I left it in the storage locker with the metal shelving and some garden stuff I didn’t need.”
We were supposed to be celebrating the close of our real estate dealings. I ordered dessert and we shared it, the three of us, me, J. and B., our real estate agent who’s also a good friend. Late last night I woke up to the noise of a very hard rain. I got up, had a glass of water, and when I went back to bed, I fell asleep again almost immediately.
La Rustica on Beach drive is a lovely place. The food is delish and the servings are generous, but not obscene. They serve a nice house chianti and the tiramisu comes large enough to serve four. It’s not cheap eats and it can be crowded, be prepared. We’ll be taking the out of town guests here – it’s perfect for that.
Magazine update: Harper’s Bazaar and a box of books from the Architects and Designer’s book club. Sigh.
[tags]Seattle real estate, West Seattle, La Rustica[/tags]
This is going to sound a little far-fetched, but I did experience this, when i was 15. We moved from a raunchy,albeit dangerous neighborhood – where I had to race away from people who would push me off my bike to steal it, and avoid the men of the YMCA coming home from the bar – into this creepy, boring, everybody’s white and walks their dog at 7pm subdivision. i missed the crazy neighbors, stories, and the sounds of the emergency room, which was literally at the bottom of my street.