When you move your home from one place to another, you do much more than just move. I’ve found that moving is more like being rebuilt than transported intact. And as I’ve learned from rebuilding various parts of my 40-year-old bicycle, when I rebuild something it does not come out the same as it was before. When I finish, I invariably find strange little pieces of metal still on the floor, presumably replaced within the mechanism by other strange little bits of metal of unknown origin.

I feel the same way. About a month ago I lived in Bergen, Norway, and now I live in Virginia Beach, Virginia, and I feel very different. I do different things. I care about different things. In Bergen, I was a disreputable and possibly socialist student-type. I thought about about things like dorm fire drills and when the next tram was coming. In Virginia Beach, I am diving headfirst into the middle class American lifestyle, and with it, I am discovering a whole new world of things I have never considered.

For example: why is furniture so expensive, large, and heavy? Why does gasoline cost so much? Where is the nearest Target? Where do you buy butter dishes? Or paper towel holders? Before these past two weeks, I think I just assumed that butter dishes and paper towel holders just came with houses. You get a stove, air conditioning, and a small covered tray for your butter. Now I realize that all of these miscellaneous items of domestic life, such as oven mitts, potted plants, and those things that you put your cutlery into, must be acquired individually from various people to whom you must give money in exchange. You have to know where to get these things, what they are called, how much they should cost, and even what kind is best for your home. Just astonishing.

But the dark side of domestic life extends even further than this. When you live somewhere not populated with students who are even more foul and disreputable than yourself, you have to contend with neighbors – real people who care about things that happen in their neighborhoods. For example, my neighbor Mike (who, interestingly, I have yet to see wearing anything other than tiny running shorts and no shirt) cares passionately about recycling. He was kind enough to inform me on my first day that the recycling truck was coming the next day, and that I should not overfill my bin, but instead use an absent neighbor’s. When I did that wrong, he was also kind enough to correct me. I can’t say that his manner was overly friendly, or even slightly friendly, but I appreciated the information. Anyways, I waited for the garbage truck to come, and then brought my bin back, neglecting to notice that the bin I had chosen was not mine, and also that it was still full of recycling. I quickly realized the second error when the recycling truck (as opposed to the garbage truck) came a few hours later. No matter, I thought, I’ll just wait a week.

I went out to run some errands and returned to find two recycling bins on my porch. One was labeled with the number of my house. The other was the one I had taken, which was not labeled. I panicked immediately. Mike must have seen that I had taken the wrong bin, and returned the correct one. But how could I return the wrong one if I didn’t know whose it was? How many neighbors had already seen the two recycling bins on my porch? I needed time to sort out a strategy, but I had a hot recycling bin right in front of my house for everyone to see. Everyone would think I was a recycling bandit. So I stashed the second bin in my garage.

With the benefit of hindsight, I now realize that this was a bad idea. I should have disposed of the evidence more thoroughly. I could have thrown it into the ocean. Or, better yet, left it on Mike's porch.

A couple days later, I was working on my bicycle with the garage door open when Mike came by. “You’ve got Pete Grimes’s recycling bin,” he said, by way of greeting.

“Oh is it his?” I said, attempting to convey my innocent intentions despite that I had blatantly hidden my neighbor’s recycling bin in my garage, “I didn’t know whose it was, so I put it in here until I could figure it out.”

“I put yours on your porch, and you’ve got Pete Grimes’s in your garage,” he said. His manner reminded me of Hercule Poirot in the final scene when he’s got all the principle suspects gathered in the dining car.

He looked more closely at the bin, whose slightly open top revealed the corner of a bundle of newspapers. “And it’s still got recycling in it,” he said, as though this were the final proof positive that I was not only a bin snatcher, but an all-around recycling bandit who also coveted my neighbors’ cardboard and aluminum cans.

Anyway, I apologized and explained and returned the bin. I thought the incident was pretty much over, except that this week (which I know very well is not a recycling week), my roommate put out the recycling. It was the only recycling bin among a sea of trash bins, and I’m sure that Mike noticed it. Probably he keeps a notebook detailing my recycling shenanigans. But then maybe he just thinks I have some form of mild brain damage that leaves me able to talk, drive and hold employment, but not understand single-stream recycling systems. I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.

There is a bright side to joining respectable society, however. For one, I have bought a drill. Since I don’t start work until August, I’ve spent most of my time moving around furniture, fixing my bicycle, and drilling holes into things, which is far from the worst way to spend your days. There’s little that makes one feel more manly and accomplished than drilling a hole in something. In fact, I’m hoping that Megan starts moving up the corporate ladder pretty rapidly so that I can maintain this lifestyle full time. I’ve also spent a lot of time hanging out with Megan’s mom’s dog, who is visiting us while Megan’s mom goes on a cruise. This has been excellent in almost all respects, but for a few really appalling dog farts, a minor tendency to wake up before 6am, and an unfortunate incident where someone (I’m assuming Mike) reported that a ‘large dog’ was living in the apartment to the apartment manager, who threatened our landlord with a fine (Moo, by the way, is a very medium-sized dog who is about as elderly, quiet, and sweet as dogs can be). In any case it’s all straightened out now, except that Mike probably thinks I am an illicit dog-harborer as well as a recycling coveter.

In summary, Virginia Beach is fantastic so far. Our house is great; our neighborhood is fanatically friendly, and I’m really enjoying my reconstructed life. Please come visit!