Farewell

In my youth in Moscow, people who emigrated would give a farewell party. Jewish emigration started in the beginning of the’70s, and was a painful process. As soon as a family applied for emigration permission, they would lose their jobs, and the children were expelled from school. In some early cases, the émigrés were required to pay back the money that the state had invested in their higher education. The sums were beyond imagination, but all friends gladly opened their purses to help. Many families were denied permission, which foreign human rights organisations and newspapers took on; some people I knew protested with hunger strikes.

Yet when all the barriers were surmounted, most of the belongings sold or given away, the rest packed, the family would throw a farewell party. The farewell was definite, as the borders closed firmly after them. The party would be held on the last evening before departure, when the flat was empty of furniture and everyone sat on the floor. Plenty of food and drink and joy. Yes, joy blended into sorrow, since after the long wait our friends were going to their desired destination, whatever that was. The partying went on until dawn, whereupon a few people stayed on to sleep on mattresses on the floor. In the morning they would clean the flat and leave the keys with the landlord. The rest of the company went to the airport for the very final farewell, seeing the friends disappear beyond passport control. On the way home, nobody spoke.

Our departure is not that dramatic, and I am almost sure we’ll in the future see some of the friends more often than now. Initially, I wanted a farewell party. Then I felt that it was much better to see all friends individually. We have been having guests or visiting friends more intensively than any other time. We have practically said farewell to everyone we hold dear.

The other day we decided we’ll give a proper party after all. We’ve made a list and are up to fifty people, immediate family not counted. It is vacation time, and many will be away, but hopefully some are coming. May the weather be on our side!

Standstill

I have now cleaned everything I can clean in advance and packed everything we don’t wear, cook with or write on. I wander restlessly about the house. It feels silly to sit down and start an article with deadline September 30. Fortunately, one of my doctoral students has decided this the best time to submit her thesis. What a relief! Nothing is more relaxing in the middle of packing than reading a thesis.

Escape

When Staffan finds he cannot stand another minute of sorting his past, he goes shopping for groceries or washing the car or something else extremely urgent. The other day he went to collect an order of clothes and offered to drive Julia, who had had lunch with us, to the train station. She called a bit later saying that her father was an angel and offered driving her all the way to her work, which is in Uppsala, 60 kilometres from Stockholm. An hour later, Staffan called to say that he was going to test the new motorway from Uppsala to Gävle, where he had grown up – 110 km more. He pointed out that he had wanted to make this trip for a long time. He would probably be back for dinner.

I for that matter am going to Cambridge on Sunday and from there to Brazil. I can hardly go farther away from packing and sorting.

Inspiration

When we were going to California for a year, most friends said: “What a nuisance! So many things to do! Why bother?” We thought it was going to be fun. And it was. Staffan says we ran around in the same apprehension as today before leaving, but I have apparently suppressed it. I don’t even remember any moving agent.

Nowadays friends say: “How exciting!” Is it because Cambridge is more attractive than San Diego? Sorry, nothing wrong with San Diego, it has the best climate in the world. Yet this is what friends say. Especially when they hear that we are moving permanently. Is it because doing something as radical in our age is admirable?

When they hear that we are selling the house, they nod or sigh. But when they hear that we have rented a wonderful house on Water Street, they get enthusiastic. They want details. They want to see pictures. It is as if they were living their own dreams through us. A friend has told us that she has applied for a new job inspired by my example.

Consolation

When our children grew up they moved from home and got their own homes. We thought it natural. Maybe Staffan and I have now grown up, and it’s time to move on.

Home staging, cont'd

Believe me or not, but I actually enjoy cleaning. I don’t like everyday cleaning because it is not particularly creative, but a huge cleaning, preferably in the basement, when you throw away tons of garbage accumulated for years and years, when the floor suddenly emerges from under layers of dirt, when cobwebs disappear, and when you can look at your deed afterwards with great satisfaction. I like making ugly things pretty. For the same reason I enjoy ironing, which most people dislike, because you see how crumpled textile becomes smooth and nice. And if you concentrate on cleaning or ironing and not on the essay that needs urgent revision it is really relaxing.

Still when the time comes there are loose objects lying around, and like you always do when you expect guests and panic-clean, I pour those in drawers and close them quickly, even though I know that this time I will still have to take care of them. Later, is the usual tune. There will be no later.

During the show we sit in the drawing room and look like wax figures at Madame Tussauds.

Fixed point

In the chaos of packing and throwing away, my doll house is the only fixed point. It is a new hobby, I only started last Christmas. But I have always wanted a doll house. My best friend had one when we were children, and I was envious. I bought one for my daughter when she was little and enjoyed making furniture of matchboxes, while she was rather indifferent. I guess this passion comes from my not having had a real home for a long time; I just wanted to satisfy my needs of decorating a house, albeit in miniature.

I have taken up a few hobbies recently, to counterbalance my mad pace at work: gardening, papermaking, and pottery. Julia’s old doll house was still in the attic, and I took it out on Boxing Day last year, to see if I could do something with it. I didn’t know at that time that I could actually make real dollhouse furniture. You don’t know before you have tried. Instead, I looked at eBay, to see what could be got cheap. Then, by mere chance, that was certainly Fate, I made a discovery. Real dollhouse makers didn’t work in the Swedish Lundby scale. Professionals used 1:12 scale. I went on searching the web, and a new world opened for me. Museums, miniature societies, journals, fairs, shops. I was trapped.

I will not dwell on how I have been building the house; please visit my dollhouse page where I describe it all step by step. But right now the doll house is the only sacred place in my 1:1 world where everything is going to pieces. The doll house is static, apart from some minor additions and modifications. When I am on the verge of tears after having packed another batch of CDs, I sit in front of it and stare. It is so peaceful. The ladies are having their neverending tea. The maids are baking and dusting. The cat is trying to jump onto the table.

The doll house will be the last thing I pack before we leave.