We all do it, but we all say, “This is the last time.” Circumstances change, and once again we find ourselves making a reservation for a rental truck.
Years ago, I had made two international moves. On one occasion, my family helped to construct a crate that was shipped out of Jacksonville and arrived in Le Havre. Years later, international moves became less complex. I could have a partial container. At the same time, the U.S. post office had a reasonable bulk shipping rate for books. Then, I enjoyed a hiatus—only one local move in a 10-year period. But the desire to travel kicked in. But in 2008, the moving companies did not return my calls about partial containers, and the post office no longer shipped books. It seemed all shipments were express (two day or overnight) and everything had to fit in a pre-paid box.
My belongings do not fit in a pre-paid box. . .
Because I wanted to take projects to complete and personal items that did not fit in the dimensions of a pre-paid box, I went the route of a consolidator. My shipment would arrive in Marseille in less than a month. . . . Friends offered to help me rent a truck and make the drive to the port. How complicated could it be?
The dock workers went on six-week strike. By the time the strike ended, the backlog of unloading had taken place at the port, and the notice arrived that I had several days to pick up my things or be charged storage fees, my friends could no longer help because of work commitments.
The drive to Marseille was only about 90 minutes from where I was staying in Grasse. But I had three stops to make at the port--pickup paperwork from the consolidator, then take those documents to customs and then go to a warehouse to pick up my things. I assumed the port would be small and manageable, and everything would be in the same proximity. And I could make those three stops before the two-hour lunch break.
The port at Marseille presented many challenges. I never found any directional signs, and the lines of trucks bent on quick delivery had little patience for the amateur. I had to stop at cafés on many occasions to ask directions. Most everyone was friendly, and I had to turn down many an offer for pastis. I did have a head-on confrontation with a bus driver on a very narrow street—no physical damage, just a slightly scathed ego.
When I exited the port area and asked directions for the A-8, the autoroute that would take me to toward Grasse, the toll lady understood my exhaustion, laughing, “Madame, vous êtes sauvées.” For the first time that day, I knew where I was going.
In comparison, yesterday’s move from Melbourne to Gainesville seemed relatively simple. . . . Still, I would rather not do it again.
My mom reminded me that in South Carolina and Virginia, the expression was, three moves equals a fire. . . . Fortunately, I did not have any breakage.
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