Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

I'm typing this from the floor of our new apartment, momentarily borrowing someone's wireless network. (Thanks, Charlene1.)

Outside the window stand tall, Southern pines, draped with Spanish moss. Behind me is Vince, napping on the fresh white carpet, still striped from the vacuum.

We're headed to the store to get a wastebasket and a bath mat, and find out how long it takes to get to my new job. Maybe we'll pick up some new lightbulbs too -- switch out the fluorescents in the kitchen with something a little warmer, more homey.

I can hear Penny unpacking in the other room. Vince sighs softly.

*****

Unloading the car yesterday, climbing the staircase to our front door for the first time, I noticed that the landing between the apartments is all unpainted wood -- nice, sturdy, lumber walkways with balconies overlooking the river in back. For some reason, it reminded me of something: waiting in line at an amusement park.

At the house, of course, we walked straight in through the garage and into the kitchen, but here there's a winding path, like at an amusement park. Down the hall, up the steps, around the corner, down the other hall, to our door. Kind of like a ride.

*****

I love rides. Always have. Especially the beginning... that feeling of fear and excitement, excitement and fear. Wondering how steep the hills will be, how dark the tunnels... looking forward to gasping and yelling and discovering new sights and feelings around each bend, stomach floating... I never thought of it before, but I think my favorite part might be that anticipation. It's a little scary, but in a good way -- inching up that first hill.

Clank... clank... clank...