Jon and I are moving to Atlanta!
Buddy’s coming with us. He’ll be a southern dog now. And me, I’ll be southern, which is bizarre and awesome because I’d never even been further south (southeast anyway) than Virginia until just this past spring when we went on our Great Southern Roadtrip as a follow-up to our Great Western Cross-Country Roadtrip. The Lizard will also come with us, though she is originally from Australia, so this won’t be any impressive jaunt to the South for her. Gordie’s final resting place will remain under our porch here in Boston.
Last Thursday we took two days off work, plus the weekend to meet with Jon’s new boss and to look for a place to live. We flew down early on Thursday morning. At our gate in Logan, there was a man who stood right at the gate an HOUR before the plane was boarding. In an article I read called 50 Secrets Your Pilot Won’t Tell You, word is that folks in the airline industry call people like him “Gate Lice”. There was no one else standing at the gate, no line, no anything. He just wanted to be first, and was willing to stand there like an angry idiot for an hour. I’ve flown many times, and have seen gate lice many times, and this behavior puzzles me. What advantage does it provide to be the first on the plane? So you can sit there for 40 minutes reading the in flight magazine? I was bored and intrigued by his outfit and demeanor, so I drew a picture of him while I waited:
Here are some highlights during the brief periods in which we had scant time for fun rather than house-searching and work-stuff:
The World’s Most Politically Incorrect Burrito Haven. It was delicious, close to our new house and I have a feeling Jon will make us eat here at least twice a week. Though I fear the term “raging” in conjunction with things related to spicy food and the GI system is alarming.
We had lunch here on our last day because I had a feeling this was a massively iconic symbol of Atlanta or something. This restaurant was even in that little “Welcome to Atlanta! Here’s some bland stuff for you to visit during your stay!” book that was in our hotel room. They said it was in the “Bohemian” neighborhood and I rolled my eyes. Those bland travel hotel books *always* label one neighborhood to be “Bohemian”. There was one sign in there that Jon and I got a kick out of:
And here, to my surprise and delight, is the World’s Largest Tricycle, which I will cheerfully add to my “World’s Largest _______” photo collection. I’m always delighted when a place I’m traveling to has a World’s Largest Something.
And guess what? We found a house! I mean, we’re renting it but you can’t really call it an “apartment” because it’s a freakin’ house and not an apartment. There aren’t any upstairs or downstairs neighbors. After the shitheads who have been living above us for the last several years, including The World’s Worst Baby, we’re extremely happy about this.