Spent an hour at the DMV transferring my California driver’s license to a Connecticut driver’s license. The DMV is never fun. But then I drove home through misty forests.
My gamble of being soothed by living closer to nature may be paying off.
Spent an hour at the DMV transferring my California driver’s license to a Connecticut driver’s license. The DMV is never fun. But then I drove home through misty forests.
My gamble of being soothed by living closer to nature may be paying off.
I ate a banana. It tasted like a banana.
I ate an avocado. It tasted like an avocado.
Stamford’s tap water, however, smells like pool water. (I haven’t been this wary of water since China). I’ll be sticking with bottled for now.
Before I moved, a friend from New Jersey told me that pizza in Connecticut was “a thing” but I scoffed. He was right. It’s definitely a thing here. Not only New Haven-style pizza, but a Stamford-specific area variety called “hot oil pizza” at places like the Colony Grill whose website describes it as an “extremely thin crust, smaller in diameter than a traditional pizza, and not too much cheese or sauce” which is then “drizzled with a spicy, full-of-flavor, pepper-infused creation simply called: hot oil.”
I assume the oil contributes to the pizza’s pockmarked appearance, a look as distinctive as steel from Damascus steel.
Tried taking the Metro-North Railroad from Stamford down to Grand Central Station in Manhattan. Had a chance to meet up with a friend from the Bay who was in town visiting her friend from D.C. We all had soup at the Oyster Bar. Alas, there was no ballroom dancing.
I was shocked to discover that this decrepit Macy’s was, in fact, still alive and open. The exterior made me think of the post-apocalyptic line from Douglas Coupland‘s Shampoo Planet where if “consumer culture went poof! overnight” we’d all be “wearing rags and husbanding pigs inside abandoned Baskin-Robbins franchises”.
My stuff still hasn’t arrived yet. But at least I still have the most important thing: teh Interwebz.
Also, my living room without carpet and furniture has the most awesome reverb. I keep whistling Angelo Badalamenti cues.
I haven’t lived this close to a library since Pardee Tower at USC. (Wait, wait. I now realize that I’ve inadvertently lied several posts back. I lived on the top floor of Pardee, so I guess I sort of have lived in a penthouse.)
The Ferguson Library is big and bright and clean. Modest yet tasteful SF selection. Impressive collection of DVDs.
Look, my black Prius was the best car I’ve ever owned. That Prius and I have been through a lot. But I thought I might be better served in New England winters by something with All Wheel Drive. My friend Abby had teasingly asked me, “Are you going to become one of those software engineers that drives a Subaru?” Apparently, yes. Yes, I am.
I’ve never lived in a Penthouse. Not even Tenpenny Tower in Fallout 3. (You’re welcome, citizens of Megaton. You owe me one.) From the balcony and living room window, looking southeast, I can see the Long Island Sound and Long Island beyond it.
Looking the other direction, I can see forests in the mid-distance.The balcony itself is smaller than the one I had (but never used) at my place in Studio City.
Kitchen…
Living room…
…with central air controlled by a Nest…
Hallway…
Laundry room…
Bathroom…
Bedroom…
…with a walk-in closet, like at my old place in Pasadena…
Second bedroom (which I will use as an office) looking out onto the balcony…
And, since I can’t be sure when my stuff will arrive, I carried a rolled-up blanket and pillow in my luggage!
Overall, considering I rented the place sight unseen, I’m quite pleased with everything.
I noticed at the Stop & Shop that all the beer & wine cooler cases had covers pulled down over them. Suspicious, I looked up Connecticut alcohol sale laws on my phone. Sure enough, it’s illegal here to sell alcohol after 6pm on Sundays.
Because Puritans.
I was informed by a dear friend who grew up in New England that prohibitions on what can and can’t be done on Sundays are called “blue laws” (apocryphally because they were first printed on blue paper.) Apparently, the ones in Connecticut may have started as an Anglican priest’s hoax.
Who knew? Boy meets world. Or, technically, boy meets New England.
For my first day in Stamford, I decided to try driving the backroads route to Blue Sky to see what my commute will be like. No photograph could capture the overwhelming beauty of the landscape at Magic Hour.
Rolling hills and forests and streams and stone bridges and lakes and fields and ponds.
My first thought was…
I rolled down my windows and started humming J.S. Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze” against the backdrop of cicadas and birdsongs.
My first impression of Stamford CT is that it is very sleepy. Maybe it was because it was a Sunday at 6pm or maybe it was because of the Labor Day weekend, but who knows? Traffic was light and most of the restaurants were closed. The other thing I noticed was the number of absurd statues throughout the town. Not quite the most absurd, but absurd.
I had rented a penthouse at the AVA Stamford sight unseen. This was my first glimpse of the building. (My place should be the second or third balcony from the left.) Won’t be able to pick up my keys until after Labor Day on Tuesday, but the place looks promising.
While landing at JFK, found this (ancient) fortune cookie fortune wedged in my notepad. Seem auspicious.