Unburying, Unboxing, and Unpacking the Madness

There’s something oddly archaeological about unpacking after an international move. It’s like excavating the ruins of a long-lost civilization. In this case, though, the ruins are your own belongings, mummified in bubble wrap and cardboard, and labeled with cryptic runes like “Ornaments” or “Decorations.”

Armed with box cutters and a cautious sense of optimism, Kristie and I began the slow process of unwrapping, unburying, and frequently, unbelieving.

At first, we were impressed by the sheer industriousness of the movers. They packed everything. But in a twist worthy of Kafka, they packed the things we had already packed into other boxes. Even if they had to custom-build a larger box by grafting bits of cardboard together like some sort of tape-covered “Franken-box,” they seemed unable to let something go without their branded materials.

It was box-in-box-in-box, lovingly entombed like a Russian nesting doll. Somewhere around box #42, we began to suspect they were paid by the layer. By Box #107, we were certain they had a performance bonus for using as many packing materials as possible.

The labeling system – if we can call it that – was where things truly went off the rails.

We opened a box marked “Cutlery,” expecting forks, knives, and spoons. Inside? One lonely serving spoon. The rest was filled with mysterious odds and ends, including a rubber doorstop, a stray USB cable, and a ceramic turtle.

There were at least a dozen boxes labeled “Ornaments,” each containing completely unrelated things, none of which were particularly ornamental.

Of course, part of the confusion is our fault. We moved from a four bedroom to a three bedroom (although larger) apartment, and the room-to-room map the movers used no longer applied. Still, the labeling decisions were occasionally so erratic that we began to wonder if the movers were secret Surrealists.

And then there was the weirdest discovery of all: a bottle of furniture polish and a used cleaning rag, both lovingly and meticulously wrapped in layers of bubble wrap.

Not a priceless vase. Not an antique clock.

Furniture polish.

The care they took in packing it makes me think someone, somewhere, really wanted to make sure our table gleamed in Spain.

Now, to their credit, almost nothing was broken. The amount of damage was surprisingly low, considering some of the boxes looked like they’d been thrown off the back of a donkey cart. Bubble wrap had been surgically slit open, and some box corners were smooshed beyond recognition (but only if they were marked “Fragile”).

There’s something comforting about having “professionals” pack for you, until you start opening the boxes and realize that, while they were very thorough, they were also deeply disturbed and mysterious in their methods.

If we’d packed ourselves, we would have used fewer materials, created a logical labeling system, and maybe left the window cleaner behind.

But then again, we didn’t have to do the work. And that’s not nuthin’.

In the end, each unwrapped item brings with it a little jolt of recognition, a tiny spark of continuity. The space is steadily feeling more and more like home. The plates find their shelf. The books line up on their shelves.

As I mentioned in the previous post, the only true casualty during the move was Kristie’s antique vanity table. But even that had a happy ending. When I put an inquiry about furniture repairs up on the local Expats site, I was referred by multiple responders to “The Furniture Savior.” In swooped Pablo. Not only did he repair the break, but he reinforced and reglued all four legs, patched a few hidden cracks we hadn’t even noticed, cleaned, polished, and personally picked up and delivered the whole thing.

All for €70.

We briefly considered nominating him for sainthood, but we weren’t sure of the paperwork requirements.

Meanwhile, the unwrapping continues. Chaotic, cathartic, and human.

Home, slowly emerging from the cardboard.