Saturday, March 13, 2010

Brad recently moved into a house we acquired in Winnipeg's core. It's a cute house on a tiny lot, with an oversized garage and a basement designed for people 5'3" and under (meaning it fits me perfectly, and Brad has to walk half bent over). The kitchen is reminiscent of the 1970s with its lovely wooden cabinetry, room dividing spindles and layers of real wood paneling that stretch from the kitchen all the way upstairs. This period piece was perfected with a final finishing touch when we replaced the somewhat modern non-functioning refrigerator, that accompanied the house's possession, with a $60 burnt orange/red Viking model from a local thrift shop. Quaint is a kind word for the kitchen.

I've spent a fair amount of time in this house over the last few weeks, mostly unpacking and setting things up. Hoping that somehow Brad moving in 6 months before I do, doesn't mean I'll inherit a boy house where all the useful dishes are on the second and third shelves far above my reach. A number of the things I've unpacked were mine anyway since I used Brad's apartment as a storage depot when I moved from my own place into Sarah's.

Today I was unpacking some of the boxes/bags of things that weren't important enough to move with me, but had enough sentimental value to warrant not sitting in a landfill or ending up in a thrift shop. It's funny how unpacking can bring on a serious bout of nostalgia.

A lovely envelope of photos captured my first three years following high school - featuring many of the friends I still consider to be my closest, one of which five years has now passed since her tragic death.

A Brazilian hammock made me think of a friend from California whom I've only spent eight days with in person, but one intense year of cross-cultural experiences was vetted across continents via MSN, googlechat, facebook, blog reading and email.

A small ball of yarn is all that remains from my knitting fascination and the poor quality of stuff I had the pleasure of purchasing in Viet Nam. I remember summer arriving and attempting to purchase yarn from the same shop I had been able to acquire it from all winter long. They understood my non-existent Vietnamese enough to dig out a bag from the storage room and look for the colour brown so I could finish a particular project. A cabled purse was one of the many things I made from that yarn. I mailed it across the globe from Ha Noi, Viet Nam to Recife, Brazil in time for Megan's birthday. I received the hammock in return.

A piece of silk sits on the arm of my couch as I question what to do with it. It was one of my first purchases, and experiences in bargaining in Hong Kong. The Western Market on Hong Kong Island was always a favourite space of mine. Fabric... the difference in organization between that market and the one I frequented in Viet Nam was astounding. And professionalism... and air quality... and ease of communication... I'm not sure which one I preferred.

As I unpacked my memories and put the items associated with them in a closet, I couldn't help but notice the small marks around my new home that indicated this used to be someone else's home. The black marker drawing on the wood panel at the top of the stairs - obviously someone's special art project that probably got them punished. The claw marks from a pet on the carpet in the master bedroom. The purple kitchen.

I'm content here. I can see myself making new memories. And when it comes time to move from here, I envision myself packing boxes and thinking some of the same memories I've had today as well as the new ones I'll have the chance to create here. Let's just hope the kitchen has progressed into the 21st century by the time Viet Nam calls me to return.