Settling

The following are reasons why I'm beginning to feel more settled in:

1. The kitchen is fully unpacked.

2. Our collection of 37 boxes is becoming our collection of broken-down boxes that we need to ask someone from Craigslist to spirit away.

3. I've assembled multiple pieces of Ikea furniture, with little insult or injury to myself, the furniture, or innocent bystanders.

4. We found a coffee table (on Craigslist, of course). Well, sort of. It actually is a bit too large, so I think we'll use it as a TV stand instead. But we needed one of those too, so it all works out. The best part was that we bought it from someone whose apartment was much funkier than ours, and not in an endearing way. Buying this table made me feel good about myself.

5. My job is great. Plus, they (my supervisors and the larger institution) keep giving me free meals. And I'm not talking Swanson HungryMan, either. Last week, there was a welcome lunch. The main course? Lobster. I am not joking. They also had steamed clams, salmon, and a fabulous vegetarian option, of which I readily partook (the veggie option, not the fish. I haven't been converted). I guess the lunch wasn't actually free to most people -- the lobster eaters, at least, had to pay -- but I wasn't charged anything. I didn't even have to show any ankle. And there was a raffle. Normally I don't win at raffles, but I won a travel coffee mug. I guess I gotta wash down all that free food with something. Yesterday, at another function, I also obtained a free lunch, made with local produce and other local goodies. Tomorrow, I'm told that there will also be food for me at a staff meeting. And next week, I hear that there might be some Pad Thai with my name on it. There is also a communal chocolate stash in the fridge at work. Hmm. Maybe I should just buy some larger clothes now so I have some room to grow.

And finally:

6. I've solved the mystery of the low ceilings in the Natick FunkHouse: It's actually not so much that the ceilings are low; it's that the floors are high. In the area of the apartment where the ceilings feel lower, the floor actually steps up, so we just stand closer to the ceiling. You know: The FunkHouse is not fat; it's just big-boned.

Unpacking

On Friday, our furniture and boxes were delivered by the movers. Now, what once appeared to be a fairly spacious apartment is filled with the mess of moving. In fact, it's very clear to me that my previous thought that this apartment was bigger than our last place was false -- it was just empty.

The unpacking is slow, since we have little closet space (we need to buy a wardrobe -- good thing we've got wardrobe boxes for now) and no dresser. And no coffee table, entertainment center, stereo, TV, filing cabinets, nightstands, etc., etc. It was nice to have a real bed to sleep on, but our bed is so big compared to the air mattress that it made me realize how small our bedroom is compared to our old bedroom in Oakland. In fact, our furniture (at least the few pieces that we have) really accentuates the slant in the floors, which I'd noticed before, but didn't realize how prominent it was until I saw how crooked our bookshelves look. I guess it's good that we're not in earthquake country anymore, although I do keep thinking "Wow, this will really be a problem in an earthquake!" only to then realize that such an event is unlikely here.

And then there are the low ceilings in the bedroom and (small) living room. The ceilings are of a normal height in the kitchen, bathroom, office, and extra room/closet/workout room. I don't know why they are lower in the other rooms, other than just general funkiness. We're not hitting our heads or anything, but I don't exactly have to get up on a chair to change a lightbulb, either. The lack of ceiling height is also accentuated by our bed, which sits up high. We bought it, of course, when we were living in our place in Oakland, which had freakishly high ceilings. They were so high, in fact, that changing lightbulbs was an adventure. I was known to have to stand on books on top of a chair in order to barely reach the ceiling fixtures. Yes, this was not the safest arrangement and I should have just gotten a ladder. I certainly don't need that ladder now, though. Good thing there are no ceiling fans or we'd have some real problems.

Because of all this, I am now obsessed with ceilings. When we go to other people's apartments to look at furniture they are selling on Craigslist, it seems like everyone has higher ceilings than we do. So my refrain after leaving these other apartments (too often, without furniture) is "Now those were some high ceilings!" So I'm basically beginning to sound like a freak. Or at least a little obsessed. And maybe I am.

What I really want are some elves to come in the night and put away all our stuff, get rid of the empty boxes, and maybe even wash a few dishes while they're here. I wonder if the Keebler Elves are available. Then they could leave me some cookies, too.

I miss our old apartment. Now those were some high ceilings.

Working Girl

Do you remember that final scene in Working Girl? The one where Tess (who, strangely enough, Arethusa recently referenced) goes into her new office building only to discover that she's in charge and has a fabulous office? Well, I am the new Tess.

Today was my first day on the job for which I moved all the way across the country. And what is the first thing they do? Give me a choice of which office I want. At the particular stage I am at in my career, having an office is unheard of. But a choice of offices? No. I chose the corner office with the brand new computer. The fact that this was even an option still boggles my mind. And they gave me a plant.

Then, what do they do next? Tell me that they will be giving me more money and benefits, due to an update in my contract.

Somebody say "Amen."

Fun with Craigslist

I trust Craigslist to give me many things: Furniture, apartments, and most of all, entertainment. To wit: Last week I posted an ad in the general section asking for recommendations for a hairstylist. I noted that I have very short hair and would like to maintain my modern cut (which is my code for no grandma hair, please). I got several e-mails with suggestions. But this is the best one:

hi, are u single ? :)  

nothing sexier than a lady 

with very short hair

!!

i'm a contractor and also 

went to cosmetology school, 

yeah, i know,

quite a

combo !  :) rick

Yes, Rick. That is indeed quite a combo.

At Last

Today a nice man came and set up our phone and internet. No more going to the library or internet cafes to check e-mail. No more having to use cell phone minutes for every single call. Who would have thought I could feel such deep love for Verizon?

We are getting more settled into the Natick FunkHouse every day. We've bought some furniture on Craigslist. We're cooking our own meals, thanks to our ChefMate Kitchen in a Box. We're blocking the train noise at night by closing the windows and turning on a large fan. We've even begun to plan our housewarming party, which will take place at some point in the distant future. We've decided that we will invite all the people we know here, even if we know them only peripherally. This means that the guy who sold us insurance gets an invite. As will the agent who helped us find the FunkHouse. Who needs to intimately know all the people at a party? I remember going to parties in college where I wasn't even sure whose house it was. This last sentence could also read: "Back in my day, we didn't need to know who was throwing the party! We just needed to be able to find it!" Choose your own adventure, people.

I've even devised a game for our theoretical housewarming party: Roll the Bottle. Rather than be irritated by our sloping floors (especially in the dining room) I think it's time to embrace them. The game will consist of 2 people, each with a bottle of beer. The people will simultaneously roll their bottles across the floor, and the person whose bottle gets to the other side first wins. Which means they get to keep their beer and their opponent's beer. Deeper meaning can be added to this game by including beers from different regions. Sam Adams vs. Sierra Nevada comes to mind -- Massachusetts vs. California! Who will win? The excitement never stops here at the FunkHouse.

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

Yesterday, we moved into our new apartment in Natick. After having only seen it once, for approximately 10 minutes, we were faced with some surprises. For instance, the previous tenants didn't do such a fine job of cleaning up when they moved out. And the building owner didn't pick up the slack. This meant that the first thing we had to do was clean the place. This is terribly unsatisfying, especially given that one of the previous tenants apparently had very long hair that was still on everything. Although I wouldn't mind if one of my friends came over and shedded (Kjerste, I'm talking to you), there is something about picking up hair from someone you don't know that is not cute. Plus, there is some painting that needs to be done, and some egregiously broken window shades that should have been fixed when the last people moved out. More work for us. We are also not entirely sure where to take out our garbage and recycling because the building owner hasn't called us back about doing an initial walk through.

We also noted how little storage space this place has, especially compared to our previous, fabulous apartment in Oakland. In Oakland, we had 2 walk-in closets, a hallway closet, and tons of drawers in our huge bathroom. And a stunning view of the lake, of course. And I realize that this is not the normal state of affairs, but damn, did I get used to it. So the room that was to be the home-gym will probably now be the treadmill room and walk-in closet. And should I even be complaining about this? I mean, really: If we've got an entire room that we can turn into closet space, I should really just shut the hell up. But complaining makes me feel better, so that's what I'm going to do.

One of the bonuses of this apartment is that it is a 4 minute walk to the commuter rail station. What this also means is that it is right on the train tracks. We can see and hear the trains go by. And although I've complained before that the trains don't run frequently enough to get me where I want to go, I'm kind of glad now that they don't run more frequently. Last night and this morning, I was awakened by every single commuter train, as well as the occasional freight train. I've also stated previously that I wanted to live somewhere with some urban noise, so I wouldn't feel like such a suburbanite. I guess I should be careful what I wish for. In some sense, the current setup is the best of both worlds: It's really, really quiet at night (except for chirping crickets) but then the train rolls through to remind me that I am livin' on the wrong side of the tracks after all.

I miss my old apartment. I miss my old life. And dammit, I'm crying in an internet cafe. Why am I in an internet cafe? Well, Verizon can't come out until next week to set up our phone and internet. And again, why am I complaining? I live within walking distance to a cafe that provides free internet.

I would take to my bed, but all we've got is an air mattress (the movers won't arrive with our stuff for a little over a week). And taking to one's air mattress just doesn't have the same histrionic flair as does taking to one's bed.

The Happy and the Sad

First, the happy: We found a place to live! We decided to take one of the places we saw on Thursday. It's huge, has hardwood floors throughout most of it, and has space for both a home office and a home gym. So I won't have to pay to go to the gym anymore. And it's really close to the train station. We will move in on Wednesday and we will finally be able to unload our car. Yay!

Of course, we won't have any furniture. Even when the movers come, we still won't have that much, since we sold so much of our stuff before leaving California. We know what this means: Furniture shopping. Ikea, here we come.

Now, the sad: Last night in Portland, Oregon, Sleater-Kinney gave their final concert before going on "indefinite hiatus." Indefinite hiatus? That sounds like "taking a break" from a long-term relationship, ladies. I know what that means! I've heard it all before! Don't go! You're my favorite band! Ever! When Todd and I heard that they were leaving us, we toyed with the idea of flying to Portland to see their last show. But then we realized that wouldn't work since we would have just gotten here and would need to find a place to live. And flying doesn't sound so fun right now, anyway. I had also applied for a job in Portland that I liked less than the one I got here. But I really love Portland. So much. In part, because Sleater-Kinney live there. And also because of the tree-hugging hippiness of it all. And it's so green and lush. But we didn't move there, and now Sleater-Kinney broke up. Maybe if we move there one day, they'll get back together. I miss them already.

Hmm. Maybe instead of leaving my heart in San Francisco, I left it in Portland. Maybe soon, it'll be in Boston. I am already starting to fall in love: Last night, as Todd and I walked around near the Common, along some of the Freedom Trail, along the waterfront, and ate at the Quincy Market (which I've discovered before and loved), I thought: I actually get to live here? I am pretty lucky, aren't I?

I wonder what I'll be saying in January.

The Bad Day

Yesterday, we had an appointment with an agent in Newton (for the California readers, this is a suburb of Boston on the commuter line to Wellesley, where I'll be working). We thought that this would be another exercise in futility as far as apartment hunting goes. But then she showed us 2 fabulous, huge places, within our price range (okay, just at the outside edge of it), both of which were a short walk to a commuter rail station. We really fell in love with the first one we saw: it was .2 miles from the train station, it had gleaming hardwood floors, a dishwasher, space for a dining room/office, huge rooms, and it was in a beautiful old house with high ceilings and nice moulding and woodwork. It was right off the main drag, on which were shops and restaurants. It was also within walking distance to Trader Joe's. It was available immediately and we could have moved in next week. We signed a lease and wrote out some checks, and then skipped back to our hotel thinking: Could it really have been this easy?

The answer to that question is always no. As I sat down at the computer to look at the commuter rail schedule to figure out how long my train ride would be, I came upon a nasty shock: During the morning and evening commute hours, NO TRAINS STOP in ANY of the Newton commuter rail stations in the direction that I would need to go, which is outbound, or away from the city. HOW CAN THIS BE?? Todd and I have both glanced at the commuter rail schedule in the past, but we had never thought that we would need to look at it to see if the train just didn't stop at any stations. Bastards!! Who the hell has a station for trains that don't stop? We called MBTA, the responsible party. The customer disservice line told us that they don't have outbound trains stop in Newton during commute hours because "there is no ridership." WHAT ABOUT ME?! I had this hopeful fantasy that if I showed a little ankle or promised to wave down the conductor, they would let me get on. Obviously, I wasn't thinking straight. The only way I could go west on the commuter rail at the times of day that I needed to do so would be by riding the commuter rail all the way into the city, getting off at South Station (e.g., all the way into the city) and then riding the commuter rail all the way back out to the 'burbs. Besides being stupid, and an hour long ride to get somewhere that should only take 20 minutes, the train would get me to the Wellesley station an hour before I need to get to work. And there are no buses in Wellesley. Nope, no buses. Rich people don't like buses. So I couldn't just skip the rail altogether and hop on a bus instead.

Who would have ever thought that there would be commuter trains that don't stop at stations during commute hours? It's one thing to have both express trains, that don't make all the stops, and local trains that do, but this? Are you kidding me, MBTA? You can take your fake train straight to hell!

Todd and I realized that we were in trouble. After beating ourselves up for signing the lease, writing checks, and not knowing that the Stupid Train didn't stop at all the stations during commute hours (and how in the HELL could we have known that) we called the agent and told her to hold on to everything while we figured out what to do. We thought of maybe buying a second car (after all, this fabulous apartment came with 2 parking spaces -- yes, 2 -- and we only had one car). But wait. We don't have the money for that. And we don't even want a second car. Then Todd suggested he drive me to work daily so he could then keep the car and not be stranded. But it's a 20 minute drive to my work, which would be a 40 minute drive for him twice a day. To a job that's not even his. And, as I just alluded to, me taking the car would leave him stranded. And then, there was the inevitable: Get back our money, tear up the lease, and cry and cry. So that's what we did.

Or attempted to do. We luckily caught the agent on the phone before she headed to the bank with our money and had the owners of the building sign the lease. But she was in a rush and couldn't just tell us that she'd give the checks back and trash the lease. She said she would call us back, but then she didn't. So we called the bank and put a stop payment on all 3 of the checks, fearful that she would try to cash them. Much hand-wringing was involved.

In the meantime, ( as in, when we were holed up in our hotel room crying and rocking in the corner -- no wait, that was just me) we started thinking about what we really wanted. We don't want to live in the 'burbs. We just don't. (Actually, for a few minutes, what we wanted was to just go back to Oakland). But then we figured that we didn't move all the way to the Boston area to not do this right. We want to live in Somerville, or Cambridge, or somewhere else cool in the city. So we started looked on Craigslist for Somerville apartments in our price range and found several good options. We made some calls, sent some e-mails, and planned on going to an open house tonight. We realized it would mean an hour-long commute for me (and we realized that there was a train that would get me there on time instead of an hour early), but at least we could live somewhere cool. We decided to head over to Somerville to scope things out. Before we left, I decided to check the commuter rail schedule again because I wanted to look at what would be my evening return trip. I learned fast not to trust Stupid Train. And wow, am I glad I checked: I will be getting off work at around 5 pm. But the train doesn't leave Wellesley until something like 6:45 pm. There was nothing earlier that I could catch, unless I could skip out of work at 4, which ain't gonna happen. So, another great plan foiled by MBTA.

So, back to reality. We came to realize that the only way that I could make the commuter rail work for me is if I am west of my work and can therefore take the inbound train (e.g., heading into Boston in the direction of the typical commute). So this means that we can either live in Natick or Wellesley. I guess we could live in Framingham, but it is just too depressing, which is probably why it's so cheap. Although I could walk to work if we lived in Wellesley, is too damn expensive. And it's not like we could afford to even shop at any of the boutiques in the center of town (except the sale rack at the Gap, which I plan to hit). We did look at a lovely apartment in Wellesley today, but it was too small, even if it was a 20 minute walk to work. Dammit! Luckily, there are several good options in Natick center, right near the train. Natick center is cute, if sparse on the cafes and restaurants. But we don't have many choices here, people. And, one of the Natick apartments we saw today was pretty great. We'll be seeing several more tonight, for a total of something like 7 apartments today.

We went into Somerville last night anyway, just to spite Stupid Train. And as we walked around the wonderful Davis Square area, we promised ourselves that we'll only live in the 'burbs for a year, until my year-long position is over. Or we'll move sooner if Todd gets a fancy job or if it turns out that he won't really need the car. Then we ate ice cream to make ourselves feel better.

But what about that agent who has that signed lease and the (now invalid) checks, you might ask. Well, fortunately, she was willing to give us all that back in exchange for half of her usual fee, for her time and energy. She seemed genuinely sorry for our pathetic asses. Phew. That was a close call.

Cancelled checks: $60.
Agent fee: $300.
Getting MBTA's/Stupid Train's big warm welcome to Massachusetts: Priceless.

It's On

In the last 2 days, we have seen 5 apartments -- 4 of them were this afternoon. And we've called and e-mailed dozens of places. We have appointments with 2 different brokers tomorrow, and another appointment with another broker the following day. And what do we have to show for this effort? Well, certainly not an apartment; we've only just begun. According to Todd, we had to look at 20 apartments the last time we did the hunt. We've even decided that we can pay more and live (gasp!) with carpeting instead of hardwood floors. Provided the carpet does not look like an animal died on it ("No pets allowed! This carpet already has all the dead pets it can take!").

And speaking of carpets that look horrible, the place we looked at yesterday was loads of fun. The broker told us before taking us to look at it that "there is some paneling." I've never gotten a paneling warning before. When we walked in, what I actually noticed first was the carpeting, which looked like it was the approximate color of dog shit. It must hide stains really well. And then there was the paneling. Whoa to the paneling!! It came from the '70s, that paneling, especially the "stone" paneling behind the non-functional fireplace. Not that we need a working fireplace -- what are we gonna do, go chop some wood? Not bloody likely. I told the broker I thought that the place "needed some updating."

Perhaps the best part of this apartment was the ceiling: As we stood there, talking to this broker, I noticed that Todd's head looked awfully close to the ceiling fan. If he were a few inches taller, he could have gotten a haircut. Or suffered a horrible Darwin Awards-type fate. The low ceilings in the apartment would mean that, if we lived there, we would have to pre-screen our friends according to height: "Oh, so you're 6'2"? Gee, I'd really like to have you over for dinner, but you'd probably be beheaded. I think you might be too tall to be my friend. Sorry!!"

We also saw a similarly disappointing apartment today. Maybe it was even more disappointing because it sounded so good on paper, and I found myself falling in love with my imaginary version of it. The best part is that it would allow me to walk to work because it was so damn close. So we sped over there only to find that it was a craphole in a great location. And we were even thinking it might be doable, what with its smallish rooms and strange carpeted area that the broker first insisted was a hallway, but then said was a dining room. A hallway AND a dining room? It must be my lucky day! But then we saw the kitchen, which contained what appeared to be a glorified easy-bake oven and no counter or cabinet space. Which might explain all the junk sitting on the floor of this place. Judging by the tenant who was there (as we walked through trying not to insult the place), this is really a student apartment. The thing is, we're all growds up now, and want a real oven. The broker tried to tell us that this was a big kitchen. Try selling that line to some 18-year-old, mister. He also kept telling us that they would clean it before we would move in. Well, that's nice, but are you gonna knock down some walls and make the place bigger too?

From there, Todd and I went to look at some apartment complexes, which we consider our fallbacks. Every apartment looked the same, but it's damn close to the train station. Just not much else. I just don't think I'm the apartment complex type. It's too quiet. Where are the loud stereos? Where are the drunken people on the street who just closed down the bar around the corner? Where is the sound of cars on the street? Not at apartment complexes. Also, because everything looks the same, I would probably get lost looking for my own apartment. And what do I need with a swimming pool and tennis courts? I don't like to swim and I don't play tennis. Instead of lying by the pool and watching people park their minivans, I want to go to a cafe around the corner.

Maybe the highlight of today, however, was when someone e-mailed Todd back about an apartment about which we had inquired. The ad had said it was "small" so we wanted to find out just what that meant. The person told us that is was 300 square feet, and that might be too small for a couple, but we should let him know. Might be?! We should let him know?! Somebody pour me a drink, stat.

The Home Stretch

It is surprisingly difficult to blog consistently on the road. There seem to always be internet issues (e.g., a hotel said that they had free wireless, but the network is down, etc.) . And then there is the issue of sharing a single computer with my beloved husband. We need to find an apartment so the movers can bring our stuff, including the other computer. But, before I get to apartments, there is the final leg of the vacation to blog about, isn't there?

Last week, we visited friends in the Midwest, as I mentioned previously. We were in the Midwest, of course, during the massive heatwave that was killing people left and right. Somehow, we were spared. The heat and humidity were unbearable and growing up in the Central Valley of California, where the temperatures would get up to 110 degrees in the summer, did not prepare me for the freakish humidity. In California, it's a dry heat. It always used to irritate me when people would say that (okay, it still does). I would think, what the hell? When it's that hot, it doesn't even matter! Don't diminish my experience of the heat! Well, now I'm reformed. There were some days where I would have really liked a dry heat. Or the wet cold of some fog.

One of the fun things about Ohio was getting to hear from some of our Midwestern friends all about the Dayton Daily News, where Todd had his first job after school. What a hilarious and incestuous office! I swear, that place was (and from the sound of it, still is) like a sitcom. And in some cases, what HBO shows very late at night. And Todd had never told me about this aspect of it; he has just told me about how boring he found Dayton. Although I don't think I'm at liberty to divulge the details here, suffice it to say that at least the newsroom wasn't boring.

Todd also showed me Young's Dairy Farm, where you can pet cows and goats, and get cheap and delicious ice cream. Yes, Todd and I were the only adults without children in tow petting the animals. Would you expect something different?


From Ohio, we headed to Niagara Falls and then to Canada. Niagara Falls was a free park that was trying to be a rip off. That is, the admission to the park was free, but if you wanted to park inside the park (which is actually pretty small), then you have to pay $8-$10. And if you want to walk on the pedestrian bridge to get a really good view of the falls, then that's $11.50. And I don't even want to know how much it costs to don a blue plastic poncho and walk around or ride a boat at the base of the falls. We ended up parking in the town and walking to the falls overlook, all of which we could do for free. We spent about 5 or 10 minutes actually looking at the falls, which made me very happy we didn't spend 10 bucks to park near them. The falls were nice and stuff, but not worth a the $11.50 view.


And then, Canada. When crossing the border, I happened to be the one driving, so I was the one the customs agent addressed as he looked at our passports. At this point in our trip, I had serious vacation fatigue, the symptoms of which are exhaustion and difficulty remembering where one has been. So, of course, the customs agent first asked me where we are from, the most difficult question to answer. When I told him we are moving and it feels a bit like we are living out of our car, I immediately realized that the "living out of our car" bit could sound somehow suspicious. So I stammered out something about how we are not really living in our car, ha ha! Customs agents do not smile, which makes them a tough crowd. The person who had been in line in front of us had been asked to turn around (for what, I don't know) so I was worried that my strange answers would result in the same fate. Then the agent asked us where all our stuff is if we're moving, and where we stayed last night. What? I don't know! Oh my God, I'm going to get kicked out of Canada! Because I was having a difficult time remembering the answers to those questions, I looked at Todd, wild-eyed, and he seemed to know that our stuff was in storage with the movers and that we had stayed in Cleveland the night before. We were then allowed to enter the country and drive in kilometres rather than miles.

In Canada, we visited Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal. First, let me comment on the style of driving in this part of the world: It involves a great deal of tailgating and extremely fast speeds. It also involves trying to run people, especially me, off the road. I find that it helps to yell at the other cars, especially if you have your window up.

Toronto is an extremely diverse city, and I really liked it. It is also very large: We were there for 2 days, and we didn't really see all that much of it. The night we came into the city, an electrical storm was brewing, and the rain began to fall, fortunately, once we got inside the hotel. The storm was spectacular. I learned in the paper the next day that the wind apparently took the roof off a house. I wasn't surprised, given that the wind felt like it could have blown our car off the road when we were driving.

We spent one day in Ottawa, Canada's capital, and walked around the parliament building and on the lovely pedestrian mall. There was an anti-Israel protest going on outside the parliament building. I wonder why the protesters didn't see fit to protest Hezbollah. It is a terrorist organization, after all. It seems like they are missing the boat here.

Then to Montreal, where they speak French. I never took any French classes, and Todd got a C the one year that he took French in high school. I do know how to say "My name is Claude" in French, thanks to a Friends episode in which Phoebe unsuccessfully tries to teach Joey how to speak French. Luckily, the Quebeckers we ran into knew English as well, and were used to people like us. Todd knew how to ask if someone spoke English, which helped. Generally, however, what would happen is that someone would say "Bonjour" and I would stifle the urge to say "Hola" because Spanish is the only other language in which I have any rudimentary understanding. Because of this stifling action, in combination with my lack of French skill, I would generally squeak out a "Hi" instead of a "Bonjour." This would cue the waiter or whomever that I'm an English-speaking freak, and the person would break out the English. Luckily, nobody seemed offended by my stupidity.

Now, we in finally in Massachusetts, and I'm so happy to be here. This week, our goal is to find an apartment. I have visions of hardwood floors dancing in my head.