This past weekend, I moved to a new part of the city, where life feels slower and more peaceful, and where warblers chirp me awake. The wait was painfully long but my recent relocation was worth it.
And I’m pleased to say my new abode is not a tiny studio (12' x 9' or 3.6m x 2.7m) anymore like my previous flat. It’s still attached as part of an aged terrace house that may never get a spot on House Hunters — not even Tiny House Nation — but a cage it ain’t. It’s got its little perks. The wall between me and the unit next door is reasonably thick, providing me with the comfort of knowing I won’t be forced to put up with angry quarrels and snoring from next door as I did before.
The previous flat was a tiny studio on the east side near famous tourist spots in Kyoto, Japan. That area was nice enough and only a ten-minute walk to the office. But it was time to move because even my strict habit of keeping my home clean and uncluttered could not keep up with “material encroachment” — stuff that slowly managed to invade and occupy my breathing space like mold in a shower closet. That’s just a metaphor** but yeah, still not ideal.
[** error: a simile]
I’m a minimalist wannabe — with good intentions but too many vices — and enjoyed certain benefits of living simply, practically and economically. But the feeling of claustrophobia grew bigger the past year, even when I was stuck in bed recuperating from Covid this early spring.
When all it takes is one pivot — as in basketball — to move from desk to bathroom or from kitchen to bed, there is nothing morally wrong to want more room to at least enable some rule-breaking travelling.
In contrast, my new flat has two floors and two small-ish bedrooms with tatami mats. It also has a reasonably-sized balcony for hanging laundry, chillin’, or spying on crows vandalizing the communal veggie farm out in the back. The cushy artificial grass rug makes each of those experiences extra pleasant.
I’ll skip all the details of my actual move. Almost everyone here has experienced relocation at least once in their life. All I’ll say about it is that practically everything went smoothly — almost like clockwork — partly due to basic planning but mostly good luck.
The first morning at my low-budget terrace house will be remembered as one that I’ve often experienced as a solo traveller in Japan’s remote destinations. The sweet-singing birds coaxed me out of my slumber, and the fresh smell of the young farm crops wafting into my bedroom with the cool breeze prompted a smile on my face.
Okay, maybe life doesn’t suck all the time. That’s saying a lot coming from a pessimist. I think my self-therapy exploring Nowism is starting to work. Thank you, my good friend @Jenny Lane!
I am lucky to have windows on both the east and west sides, which is not only great for ventilation during Japan’s sultry, steamy summer, but also keeps my house interior naturally lit twelve hours of the day. Electric consumption and costs are reduced. A penny saved is a penny earned!
The tatami-matted room, a relatively comfortable interior for all seasons, is my sleeping quarter. The adjacent room is my study, where I can continue my writing, photography and video editing projects, and a mini recording studio for my future online language teaching. Doh! I need a new router…
And finally, on the ground floor is where I can cook, eat, and do core workouts. Why exercise in the living room? The fridge is there. And the ice cream is in the freezer — convenient after losing all those calories!
Speaking of physical exertion, compared to my last home which was just a mere ten-minute walk to the office, I now ride about 8 miles or less than 13 km each way on a 20" folding bicycle with an eight-speed shifter. It’s a joy ride. But I’ll keep the rest of the details about my daily commute in my next story and how it relates to my understanding of how our brain works — or maybe just mine. To be continued.
As I stood at my kitchen counter hand-grinding coffee beans, I let the morning sun warm my face like a lover’s caress. Then, letting my imagination run wild, I could almost hear her say the following:
“Sweetheart, how about a kiss for a sip of your brew?”
“That’s not a bad trade. I’m no businessman but how about a whole mug, and we could make out?” I’d wistfully reply.
I’m so satisfied with my relocation. Crap can hit the fan in life, but we dust (or wipe) ourselves off, pick ourselves up, and we move on.
With my recent move, it feels I might Move On Up. (Thanks, Curtis Mayfield!)
A narrated version of this post is coming soon.
