It’s amazing, in Halifax, how moving a few minutes up the street makes you feel like you’ve moved into an entirely different city.

We moved, over two days and then were unpacking for days and days after that. But things are pretty much set up now, with a new futon (the couch we wanted wouldn’t fit in the old doors), a new desk for me, a new vacuum, and a new place to sleep at night.

I’ve moved, in little more than a year, between three different places. First downtown, then in the south-end on a university campus and now — I think this area is “central.” It’s not north enough to be North End, but it’s a long haul back to the groomed lawns and overpriced houses of the South End. West End, I think, is officially far closer to the mall, which, while closer, is not close. The street
has a lot of trees, and families for neighbours, not students. And while I can still, on occasion, hear the music from the metal heads downstairs rumbling up through the floor, it’s relatively quiet.

We’ve met a few neighbours already. One of the metal heads. Two women upstairs, one of whom is the youngest of some kind of paramedic in the province. Next door is Mr. Hill, a 90-something-year-old blind man who, along with the annual Canada Day street party, is the fact about the street that always gets a mention during the informative
first-time meetings with neighbours.

There’s a different feel up here, different stores, different restaurants, different people. It’s actually the same distance to most places I would go from my old apartment, and in some cases closer. But more than that, it feels less like an apartment than a home.

We’re home.

. . . and we got a cat, Morgan, whom I will talk about later.