Beginnings
On the bus this morning, David and I noted the beginnings of the curbside detritus that accompanies the mass migration of students from old apartments to new. He and I haven’t participated in that madness for years, but we remember it nonetheless; we first arrived in Madison on student move-in day.
This move-in day, David and I will mark eight years in Madison. It doesn’t feel like that long to either of us. For me, four and a half years of graduate school are gone like a bad dream. For him… well, he doesn’t feel time the way I do.
Two terrified people arrived at their newly-rented apartment eight years ago. She had openly defied her parents for the first time in her life to come live with him. They had taken the news exquisitely poorly, first lecturing her, then leaving out snide magazine articles with titles like “‘I’m Going to Live with My Boyfriend:’ How to Tell Your Daughter She’s Making a Terrible Mistake.” At last they relegated her to a chilly silence. We Will Not Discuss It.
He wasn’t entirely sure what to do next. She would be entering graduate school on fellowship. He had to find a job, that was clear; but he knew no one in Madison.
They loved each other, very much. They had been paired since she was a college freshman and he a new-minted grad student. But they had spent the last two years apart (save for a few precious visits) after he left grad school. Would their love survive a tiny apartment (with roaches, yet), her inability to cook, his never having lived on his own?
They had had a long day, that day. The day before, she had taken the train to where he lived, hauling as many necessities as she could think of in two huge suitcases. (Their worldly belongings would arrive in Madison via UPS a few days after they did. They had so little—she had rented a furnished apartment, knowing how little they had—that hiring a mover would have cost them more. She didn’t drive, so renting a truck for the days-long trip was out of the question.) This day they had spent in taxis and airports and on airplanes, holding hands tightly as a charm against uncertainty.
There they were. Hot day, cruelly bright. They had to wait a good long time for their apartment to open up; the carpets had been cleaned and needed to dry. Finally they were permitted to haul their heavy suitcases down a dark hall to number 75. Only then did she discover that the key to her little suitcase lock had gotten lost. He took care of that by bursting the cloth zipper. So they had sheets, towels, toiletries enough for now, a single cooking pot and a few utensils. They sat on the sofa and looked at each other.
They had scrounged something vaguely resembling lunch in O’Hare. They were hungry. They hadn’t gone grocery-shopping yet; they thought they knew where the nearest store was. All there was to eat was a few boxed pilafs that he had stuffed in his carry-on.
She picked up the phone book and hunted for restaurants that might serve a couple of vegetarians. (Her vegetarianism was all of two days old.) Her eye lit on a Mediterranean restaurant that, by the address, couldn’t be more than a few blocks away. They set out, holding hands again.
That was the best decision they could possibly have made. The server in the little restaurant welcomed them kindly. Did he see how tired and afraid they were? The food they ordered turned out to be excellent, hummus and falafel and grape-leaf-wrapped rice. Suddenly they thought that perhaps they’d make it after all.
They have gone back to the little Mediterranean restaurant every year on move-in day since then. They’ll go again this year.