“South Africa, that’s halfway around the world,” Kelly, the mailman, said to me while I waited on the street for the movers to finish loading the contents of my apartment into a van.
It was an 88-degree day that felt like July. A woman walked by holding a battery-powered fan.
“Tough day to do move,” said a cyclist who dismounted near me, soaked in sweat.
Turned out to be an easy day to move. My girlfriend and I drove the van from Manhattan to Wallingford, Conn., where I rented a 5 x 10 climate-controlled storage locker. We encountered little traffic and arrived back in the city at 9:00 p.m.
Later we headed downtown for a margarita. As it happened, the day marked the 12th anniversary of 9/11. We stopped en route at Engine 24, which has a memorial for firefighters from the company who died at ground zero on 9/11.
“Take care, it’s been great knowing you,” Kelly had said as we fist-bumped. I later overheard him greeting a man at the building next door. “I don’t know the neighborhood very well,” the man said. “I just moved here.”
That’s how it goes in New York. You leave and someone else arrives. That’s part of the rhythm of this great city.