For people sound of body, brain, and spirit, moving from one domicile to another is an activity that inspires the worst feelings imaginable: dread, preemptive exhaustion, crabbiness, irritability, and leg cramping. Okay, maybe the leg cramping happens after moving. Go eat a banana, girl!
The topic is on my mind because I just moved. Again. Fifth time in six years living in Chicago– and no, I am not the nomadic type. I like to settle, decorate, and dig in to an apartment the way bears do in winter, minus that wet fur/cave smell. However, I also like to make weird life decisions, and so often find myself come spring realizing I’ve just cut one more tie, or been impulsive again, and need to find a new place. Sigh. After three weeks of viewing 17 “apartments” in Pilsen until I found The One, I realized two things: 1) I love Pilsen and I will never leave, but dang are some people really fooling themselves about what constitutes a bedroom; and 2) I needed a beer.
The latter was a common refrain throughout the whole moving experience, coupled with “I need a taco.” Now, the beer options in my ‘hood are often limited to the usual suspects: Modelo, Pacifico, and the like. Not that I have not consumed–with gusto!–these beers, but when working as hard at boxing all that stuff I feel that a girl deserves something a little better. A little more caloric, even. So I did what I could to help the movers’ task, and I broke into my stash to lighten their load.
Now, those who see me often know that I abstained from beer for a month, in preparation for a wedding in which I refused to be the fat bridesmaid. Did I really succeed in avoiding the hops for a whole month? No. But I did decently well, and as such I amassed quite the little tempting bottle collection, namely from Lush’s recent field trip to New Glarus Brewery in Wisconsin. I came home with a mixed case of deliciousness, including several bottles of their Hop Hearty Ale, a beer that, I find, is the perfect foil to tacos.
I keep giving beer all these shout-outs, but let me also give the tacos some props, too. First off, the night the movers took the bulk of [and, the bulk-y] my stuff away, I sliced up my thumb. Fearful of anemia, I just knew that the solution was some tacos, so I pedaled up to a long-time favorite, El Taco Veloz, located not too far from LUSH West Town on Chicago Avenue. Still bleeding profusely and generally wiped, their al pastor was a restorative tonic to my mood, and offset the red blood cells sacrificed to a stubborn bed frame. Tuesday evening was when I moved all the dinky stuff. Dinky stuff, as it turns out, multiplies like bunnies during the night and filled a friend’s station wagon. Three times. Oops!
That last trip is always the worst, and by the time it ended, we were closing in on 10PM. There was no way I was going to begin unpacking, search out a saute pan and some food and eat something healthy. Nope. Not gonna do it. The solution, of course, was tacos– they served as a thank-you to the gent watching my beloved pooch during this whole moving process, as well as to the gent who actually helped me move again–for the fourth time now. He claims to enjoy it. I claim he’s insane. For a studious comparison, we hit up Taqueria Traspasada #2, known for its chorizo and al pastor. I devoured mine largely in silence. The Move was done, and it was time for serious reflection. Reflection in the window of a taco joint.
The story really should end there, guys. But it won’t. Nope! Because The Move didn’t end there! In my sublime relief that it was Over, I forgot that it wasn’t. I still had to clean the old place. Oh yeah, and clean and unpack in the new place. Crap! So, for the third day in a row, I surrounded myself with boxes, blasted some tunes, got dirty, and aggravated that thumb wound, which promises to leave an excellent scar. Another friend came by to inspect the new place and we both discovered we were starving, so off to Abuelo’s, which I really recommend as a fun BYOB, for what? More tacos. Then I went home and what? Drank a beer.
I love tacos, and I love beer, but I’m never moving again!
(Not until next year.)