67 Steps

Well, it's done. The nastiest little move-in ever recorded in the history of man. Think I'm being dramatic? Think again. Imagine this: it's a picturesque day in Brooklyn, NY. The birds are singing, its a beautiful (and to us Southerners cool) 85ºF without a cloud in the sky or a hint of bad weather in the vicinity. We rolled up to the curb outside our pre-war apartment building to people riding their bicycles to the farmer's market, kids playing hopscotch on the sidewalk and a fat cat lazily swatting at a fly. We had that overwhelming sensation creep up on us: we were home. We'd work for one solid hour unloading and by noon we'd be in The Brooklyn Public House having a cold drink and congratulating ourselves on a job well done. After all, how hard of a hurdle could 67 steps actually be when they were all that stood between us and "home"?

Oh, the blissful ignorance of us before the move-in actually began.

Our first trip up the stairs to unlock the doors for the first time (and for Alex to actually see the place for the first time as I found it on a solo NYC trip a couple of weeks ago) and to deposit Maggie in a corner didn't seem that bad. The 5th floor seemed to pop up quickly and easily and we optimistically brushed off the heat in the unventilated hallway, opened the windows in our place and dashed back down the narrow stairwell to start bringing in our stuff that had made it through the weeks of carefully planned Goodwill trips.  Alex and Tom (and incredibly kind friend of Alex's from UVa who graciously volunteered to help us unload) made the first trip while I stayed with the truck (which was, obviously, illegally parked in a fire lane). They came back a little red in the face but I was ready to join the fight so I grabbed several boxes (maybe just one too many...) and began at a quick pace up the stairs. The first two flights came pretty easily. By the middle of the third, though, I began to feel very hot and a little dizzy. And at the start of the fourth (contrary to my first belief, we've actually only got four flights to climb because level one blessedly happens to be on the ground with no stoop) I just knew I would never make it. By the time I got in my door I felt sick and stupid and totally energy-less.  Skipping breakfast that day was so not a good idea. So, after shoving a granola bar in my mouth and downing a bottle of water, I stayed with the truck for the next few trips and after that we tried to rotate rest "truck" breaks.

Our "solid hour" turned into four that at the end produced three extremely hot, tired, and hungry movers. Never again will I laugh off ANY amount of stairs when carrying heavy things up, up, and up into the heat and stuffiness. Four flights of stairs sure didn't sound like a lot. It's only 67 steps, after all.  It turns out that 67 steps is a lot. A whole lot.

What made it worth it at the end of the day? A cold drink at a comfy local pup and our own spectacular view of Downtown Brooklyn and Manhattan that only a 5th floor walk-up could provide.

Cheers, y'all.