Walking Home

When my husband and I decided to return to the US after five years abroad, we vowed to continue the car-free lifestyle to which we'd grown accustomed. We enjoyed the extra disposable income freed from the budgetary restrictions of car payments, insurance, maintenance and gas. Such savings enabled us to see much of Europe. We would be making our new home in Washington, D.C., and since I had never lived on the East Coast, I was excited to continue putting toward travel any extra money saved by resisting the temptation to own a four-wheeled ton of metal, this time for exploring the surrounding states. Friends were dubious about our ability to hold out. "You'll fold in a week," predicted one such naysayer. But, we were determined to survive.

When we arrived in D.C., it was a sweltering Wednesday in August. Our London-thickened skin suddenly started sweating profusely as we joined the line of passengers waiting for a taxi. Since our shipments from London were not due to arrive for several weeks, we had packed considerably more than we could comfortably navigate on public transport. The taxi quickly and effortlessly deposited us at our first stop, a friend's house. Our friend then borrowed her roommate's vehicle to transport us to our temporary residence, a colleague's row house, which was a convenient stone's throw from a metro stop. The following day, the work of finding a place to live began. We planned to rent for a year to familiarize ourselves with the city before committing to buying a place where we hoped to reside for several years.

While in London, we had connected with a real estate agent based in Maryland who had compiled a list of apartments he hoped would meet our needs. He spent several hours chauffeuring us around northwest D.C., helpfully pointing out the nearest metro stops, supermarkets and other amenities. Unfortunately, one place was too big, another too small, and a third too expensive. When he had run out of options, he dropped us off at the nearest metro stop and, thanking him profusely for his time, we descended the steep escalator, untucking our metro tickets from our pockets on the way.

Our next option was the online classifieds. After conducting numerous specific searches, including neighborhood, price and number of bedrooms; clicking on countless results; and perusing all the details; we culled the options to a shortlist and, checking our pockets for our pay-as-you-go farecards, were on our way. At each location, we noted the nearest supermarket and clocked the walking distance from metro to front door. The winning residence was a basement apartment, around the corner from a metro stop and a coffee shop, a short walk from a weekend farmers' market and a short bus ride away from a large supermarket. Best of all, we could move in immediately.

The owner of our temporary residence was due back the day of our discovery, so that morning we had lugged our oversized bags a few blocks away to the home of another friend, who had offered to let us crash on his couch until we found a place. Grateful as we were for his generosity, we were jubilant that we wouldn't need to make use of the couch-cum-double bed smack in the middle of the living room of a house inhabited by three unrelated people. We had done this once before, when we had flown to DC from London for an exploratory weekend. In a situation like that, the occupants of the couch are the last to hit the sack and the first to be groggily awakened by the lark of the house.

Excited to have a place to call home, at least for the next year, we rang a taxi. We had no intention of doing any further damage to our backs by carrying our bags to our apartment ourselves. But we had barely hung up when our friend's girlfriend, who had not been privy to our half of the conversation with the cab company, inquired about our intended method of transporting our goods. "We just called a taxi," we explained. Nonsense, she exclaimed. Why pay for a taxi when she had a perfectly functioning hatchback out front? Unable and unwilling to provide a reason to refuse her offer, we canceled the taxi and proceeded to load up her tiny car. Two trips were required, with only one of us able to fit in the car along with her. I felt like we were living out the troublesome wolf/goat/cabbage math problem. Fortunately, in this case, no one was in danger of eating anyone else.

Now that we had successfully secured a permanent residence, we moved on to the next item on the list: purchase laptop computer. One would think groceries would be more important, but since I planned to write for a living, the computer was a necessity, as it would help secure the funds to purchase said groceries. I grabbed my darling, computer-whiz hubby by the hand and we popped on the unbelievably close metro to visit the computer store. Thinking about bringing home such a big-ticket item without the security of a shield of metal between us and potential muggers caused a bit of anxiety, but the metro had proved worry-free thus far, so we decided to trust humanity and travel during daylight hours. The trip there was uneventful and, after a brain-overloading (for me) conversation with helpful Ian about all the wonderful things our computer of choice had to offer, we were soon loaded down with not just laptop, but also printer and MP3 player (both free with mail-in rebate), USB cable, and over-packaged word-processing software, all with brand names clearly visible through the transparent bags. We had no problems getting my new "office" home, but I breathed a tiny sigh of relief when we reached our apartment complex.

Our next adventure was visiting the great housewares superstore, Bed, Bath and Beyond. Our apartment was furnished but lacked a few basics, like pillows and a trashcan. Wheeling a cart around the monolithic store was an adventure in itself. Who knew there were so many things one needed in their bedroom, bathroom, or elsewhere in their home? Between picking out the perfect pillows for our diverse sleeping styles, and selecting the cheapest trash bin from a literal wall of choices, we came across several other items we hadn't even considered but realized we needed, like a large-number digital alarm clock featuring myriad options for waking tones. And a few items we probably didn't need, but decided would be nice to have, like a collection of four thin plastic cutting boards, each decorated with a picture of an item of the food group meant to be chopped on it, so as not to risk contaminating vegetables with raw meat; or the squeezable real-size football--great for throwing at the TV when the ref makes a stupid call. Fortunately, we were forced to limit our load of the unnecessary-but-fun items since we didn't have a car to help haul it. With Tetris-like planning, we knew we could pack the trashcan with goods and one person could carry that. Then the other person would be responsible for the pillows and everything else that could be packed in the same bag. We regretfully bypassed a colorful, multi-bulb lamp for the bedroom, as it wouldn't fit in chosen trashcan. Shelves of plastic, metal and wicker storage bins merited only a passing glance. As it was, we left with more than we'd listed, but with far less than if we'd had a car to carry it all.

Now, if transporting a laptop without a car brings a fear of mugging, carrying a trash can and pillows brings a whole new set of worries--what on earth are people thinking of us? We certainly didn't help matters by picking a neon-green trashcan--not exactly inconspicuous. We got looks, of course, but only once-overs, no overt staring. But, then, passengers tend not to stare on the metro. As we were departing, I did hear one girl sitting near the door say under her breath, "I don't even want to know," while glancing at our bulging bags, but I'm not sure if the comment was related to her shock at seeing us carrying such large household items on the metro or if she was talking about something else and just happened to utter that comment as I traipsed across her line of vision.

As for groceries, we discovered that at Safeway, first-time online shoppers qualify for free delivery if they spend enough. Our mile-long shopping list assured us we would have no trouble meeting the minimum requirement.

Settling down to dinner a week after our arrival, we reflected on our housewares adventures, contemplating what we would think were we to come across intrepid movers such as ourselves crating large unwieldy household goods on the metro. We hadn't thus far but knew if we did, we would admire them tremendously. As we tucked into our pasta dinner, my husband suddenly had a realization. "It's Wednesday," he announced, a satisfied smile forming on his face. My blank face prompted him to explain, "We didn't fold."

Sara Kruger