Here is how the moving company situation went down:
Thursday, July 10th, Miriam calls Anything Anywhere again, after being told last week that our things had left California on the 2nd, and that we'd get a call two days before the truck would arrive. When Miriam talked to the guy, he was *shocked* she hadn't received a call – they would be there the next day. Also, they would need the rest of the payment…in cash. The rest of the payment? Well, let's just say it's well over what even two people could each pull from an ATM (at least, I think). And, keep in mind, this was a figure that was worked down from a larger one they wanted to charge us – even though they were nearly a week late, in breach of their contract.
So, we had to scramble to get that cash. And this was at 3:30 PM EST. We did have the money – in two places, actually. One is our San Diego credit union account, which poses the ATM problem. Our other account is with Wachovia (which we opened here in Columbia). However, with new accounts, they freeze funds for seven days after deposit for the first six months. Of course, it hadn't been seven days since our last deposit. Of course.
What we worked was this: Miriam's parents would bring cash to a Wachovia (that just opened in San Diego) to deposit in our account. It would thus be immediate (the hold is just on checks), and we could pull it out from our Wachovia branch in the morning. The branch manager in San Diego even went as far as to e-mail the Columbia branch manager and teller manager, as well as the local regional manager, about the situation. So, Wachovia not so bad in our book…except the whole holding our checks up for six months.
We were only given an approximate time when they would be arriving – sometime after 10 am. Miriam decided to go ahead and go to class, and I called into my the job I had just gotten (though I had explained to them that this might come up…and I was really on the schedule yet). Our friend Michelle (her husband, Collin, is in Miriam's class at USC) came over, with her 4-month old daughter, Delilah, to act as a witness of this cash exchange. As the whole thing seemed kind of shady, we made up a de facto receipt (on lined paper) for the driver and me to sign. Though there would end up being a bill of lading to sign, that didn't mean things didn't get shadier.
Around 11, I get a call from the driver's Russian fiancée. They were on Broad River, but couldn't find the entrance to our complex. I told her more details of where it was. 20 minutes later, she calls again to explain that they've found the entrance, but have a long trailer and are waiting to make the left onto Farrington Way. It was probably another 20 minutes when I went out to the side of our building to look down the street and see where they were. Though, you can't see the main road from there. I stood for a while, but it was too hot to stand there for too long. And then, right as I walk back into the apartment, the phone rings again. They've made the left, but now are confused about which building is ours. So I go out to the street again to wave at them. And, holy crap, that is a huge trailer!
So, they pull up and park along the main street of the complex (Farrington Way). The driver, Mike Webb (totally doesn't like a private investigator from a noir film, doesn't it?), introduces himself and comes into the place to skope things out. First off, we (Michelle and I) need to move our cars. He'd also like to move the Volvo from next door, but we find out that they person with the keys is not at home at the moment. Then there was the matter of the payment. Like I said, pulling the money went fine. Everything having to do with the money after that...not so much.
He wanted to make sure that all the bills were not counterfeit. He had a whole speech (that he re-iterated several time) about "nothing against me" and "don't want to go for jail for no one." So he starts going through them, and that's when he spots some that don't have tags in them (the strips that run along the short length of the bill; bar codes, as he called them). Well, they're just old bills, but he goes on about having never seen hundies (my word, not his) without "bar codes" and starts worrying they're fakes, even if they came from Wachovia. So what he wants to do is have me drive him to the Wachovia branch and check with them on these mysterious non-tagged bills. So...what can I do? They guy's got all our stuff, that we've been waiting two weeks for, and which we scrambled to get this cash for. This would be the extra-shadiness I spoke of earlier.
We hop in my car and I drive him down to the Wachovia, which isn't too far, but still a little bit too far for complete comfort. He talks about his fiancée's Russian family -- about how you must be there for birthdays. Simply a call or a card won't do.
Now, this is a Friday, at noon, so you can imagine what the Wachovia was like. Packed. So there's a huge line for the tellers. But that's not gonna cut it for Mike Webb. He heads over to a help desk in the set-up-a-new-account area. After looking around in the offices for anyone, he comes around the other side of the desk, surreptitiously, which he later said was because he was hold a assload (my word) of cash. He asked the lady at the desk about it. I give her a it's-him-not-me look, and she takes the money over behind the teller counter. He follows, in a move that to me, makes it look like he's cutting in line. I sort of stay back, trying to be a observer rather than a participant in this whole situation. And they told him what I suspected: the bills were printed before the tagging system was implemented (1990). They're just old bills.
We returned to the apartment, the cash's validity verified. Now it was time to unload. That all went pretty smoothly. We had a table whose top came off. Mike blamed that on shotty manufacturing, which is probably true, and fixed it anyway with some special glue mixture. The only thing that didn't pan out well was the reconstruction of our bed. Apparently, Mike's helpers couldn't make much of the parts and only put it together to a point. They left a beam out, didn't screw in the slats, and then seemingly hid the rest of the parts, so that when I went to fix the bed later, I went out and bought all new parts (screws & such). I found the original parts a week or so afterwards. So we have extra now.
Miriam came by for a bit, between classes, and I sent Michelle home when Miriam left (she'd already been there long enough, especially with the baby). It took Mike and the guys a couple hours to get everything in. But once they did, and we went over the bill of lading, and they left...our reunion with our stuff was nearly complete.
Now we just had to get it out of the boxes.
That, a month later, is still a work in progress. The downstairs is box-free, and everything is where it should be. The bedroom (upstairs), too, is box-free. It's down to the office/2nd bedroom...again, as in the last apartment. I will have to do something with that stuff, as my parents will be staying in that room for a couple days in the beginning of October. It's just that the rest of the stuff is photo albums, files, loose stationary and miscellaneous crap we've acquired through the years -- just stuff I don't feel an immediate need to unpack. So it'll probably wait to a week before my parents come.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Arrival, or, Empty Apartments and Evening Flights
There’s only so much you can tell about a place through Google Earth and Maps. You can see that there are buildings, homes, trees. But what you can’t tell is what sort of condition they’re in. It’s also hard to tell sometime if a parcel of land is just empty, or rather a parking lot in horrible condition.
So when you look at Broad River Road from satellite view on Google Maps, and when you actually drive down it, it’s a different experience.
We start at the intersection of St. Andrews and Broad River, which disdains the traditional gas-station-at-three-corners for a drug-stores-at-three-corners model (Walgreens, CVS and Rite Aid). Of course, something had to give, and Rite Aid seemed to be the one who stepped back and said, “Whoa. This is a bit too much.”
Moving south, there’s a Sonic Burger, with its trademark garish LED marquee. Across the street is a place that buys your gold and two porn shops (do you use the gold money to buy sexual supplies?). Further on there are two self-storage facilities, plus the Ole Town Antique Store. I’ve seen “ole” used several times in the area in place of “old.” Maybe it’s a consequence of being near the Mexican border that we use “olde” instead of “ole.” (I also haven’t seen any Horchata or Jamaica Olé! … or Orange Bang!)
We have come to the entrance to Farrington Apartments, across from the BP station that always has at least one of the numbers missing from the price of gas (regular). This is our stop, but a look down the road will show a string of strip malls, an empty large box store (with no faded clues as to its previous occupant, but an 80s-style van almost always parked at the front doors), various fast-food establishments and some gas stations-turned-loan and cash-checking service stores. Oh, and there’s Cokesbury – which is a Christian bookstore, but obviously of the snooty, English countryside variety.
The lane up to the Farrington complex is shaped like a backwards question mark, with trees lining the side abutted by a self-storage facility, and duplexes (“Londonberry,” what’s with the British influence around here?). Around the final curve of the question mark, the first buildings of the Farrington appear, one which Google Maps had assured me would be our new home. The addresses posted to the side of the building told me a different story. We turned out to be smack-dab in the middle.
Leaving community commentary behind, and picking up where I left off on the previous post, we pulled both our cars up to the complex office/clubhouse. The offices were upstairs, with stairs leading down to the “clubhouse,” which seemed nice enough, though it was filled with someone’s stuff (e.g., boxes of clothes, lamps, small furniture). There is also a small laundry room around the back of the building.
We initialed and signed countless forms (and poor Bobby had to stand for the entire process, as there was a severe lack of chairs in the place), and were finally handed the keys to our new apartment. We were also told that they’d be doing a walk-through to establish any blemishes that were there before we occupied the space. That walk-through never happened, as far as I know. I went back to the office a week later to inquire about it, and was told that they had many still to do, and that we’d be notified a day before it happened.
That aside, we pulled up into our two designated parking spaces, grabbed a couple things, and stepped onto our new patio. The door to the patio, adjacent to the parking, is officially the “back door.” Though, come on, people – obviously that’s where you’re going to enter your home. Consequently, there’s no light switch to hit as you enter (the backdoor is mostly glass, flanked by two floor-length windows). There’s one large room that acts as the living and dining room. The kitchen is separate, through a doorway. A hall flanked by a half-bath (below the stairs) and the washer and dryer space leads to a coat closet and the “front” door. Across from the front door are the stairs. They lead up to a landing off which is the two bedrooms, a full bath and a skinny linen closet. It’s actually really nice. The only thing was, it was empty.
And it would mostly stay that way for a week and a half.
You see, we had our stuff (boxes and furniture and appliances, etc.) sent via a moving service. We were expecting them to hopefully deliver by the day we arrived (June 24), or at latest the next day.
Well, June 25 came and no call or truck arrived. So Miriam called them. “Them” was at first East Coast Movers, whom we had contacted to move our stuff. They had in turn contacted Anything Anywhere to haul the stuff across country. Miriam was told by the East Coast guy that it was out of his hands and to contact Anything Anywhere. She did, and they said they’d look into it and give us a call back. That call back never came, and the day ended with Miriam and I on the air mattress (thank God for it!) and Bobby on a sleeping bag (I say “on” because it was way too warm to be in it).
The next day, after the morning passes without a return call, Miriam calls again and is given the news that our things have not even left California yet. Yes, they were picked up on June 7, and then sat for nearly a month in a warehouse somewhere in the L.A. area. Long story short on the movers, there was a lot more back-and-forth about getting our things as soon as possible. The finally left California a week after we arrived in South Carolina, and arrived at our door July 7 – the arrival is another story for another post.
In the meantime, we went to Walmart and bought some chairs and a TV tray so Miriam could have a faux-desk. We also got a nice office chair, which is incidentally the same chair from my previous job at All-in-One, when we were at the Charleston Costco. And as the one laptop and that’s it between the both of us situation was coming to a head, and the fact that I would need something for when we go abroad, we went out and got my very first laptop (hell, my very first new any-type-of-computer, as everything before was either built by my brother over time, or was Miriam’s computer).
With the knowledge that our stuff would not be coming any time soon (we joked that the moving company was called Anything Anywhere, but not Anytime), we were both free to bring Bobby down to Charleston to catch his flight back to San Diego (via a stop-over in Atlanta).
We wanted to check out downtown Charleston, so we came in and stopped at the visitor’s center, to get an idea of where to go (especially for lunch). The visitor center was a bit too far of a walk away from the restaurants for us (especially with the heat), so we got back in the sweetly air-conditioned car and relocated to a more central parking structure. We were going to go for BBQ, but ended up going to a place right across the street from the parking garage, 82 Queen, which kind of reminded Miriam and I of Club 33 (secret/private club/restaurant within Disneyland). We had fried green tomatoes for an appetizer, and I was going to get the shrimp and grits, but couldn’t resist the lure of a turkey and brie sandwich. After lunch we drove across the Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge, which is the longest cable-stayed bridge in the Americas (here’s the Wikipedia page on it), to Mt. Pleasant, on through and over a drawbridge, over to Sullivan’s Island, where would formally complete our trip, from coast to coast. The beach was very much as I picture Atlantic beaches. You can see the pictures on at my Picasa space.
Then it was over the bridges and to the airport, where Bobby would begin his journey back to San Diego (from Charleston to Atlanta, and then Atlanta to San Diego, though the plane was delayed in Atlanta, and Bobby didn’t back into San Diego until 2 a.m. PST).
Saying goodbye to Bobby was hard, as he was that last remnant of San Diego that we’d been clinging to. With him there, it was still like a vacation. But once he was gone, we’d have to start getting serious.
After bidding Bobby bye-bye (couldn’t help but alliterate), Miriam and I headed over to the Costco and stocked up on paper towel and toilet paper (Kirkland: the best!) and the aforementioned office chair. Then it was back to Columbia, and our empty apartment.
So when you look at Broad River Road from satellite view on Google Maps, and when you actually drive down it, it’s a different experience.
We start at the intersection of St. Andrews and Broad River, which disdains the traditional gas-station-at-three-corners for a drug-stores-at-three-corners model (Walgreens, CVS and Rite Aid). Of course, something had to give, and Rite Aid seemed to be the one who stepped back and said, “Whoa. This is a bit too much.”
Moving south, there’s a Sonic Burger, with its trademark garish LED marquee. Across the street is a place that buys your gold and two porn shops (do you use the gold money to buy sexual supplies?). Further on there are two self-storage facilities, plus the Ole Town Antique Store. I’ve seen “ole” used several times in the area in place of “old.” Maybe it’s a consequence of being near the Mexican border that we use “olde” instead of “ole.” (I also haven’t seen any Horchata or Jamaica Olé! … or Orange Bang!)
We have come to the entrance to Farrington Apartments, across from the BP station that always has at least one of the numbers missing from the price of gas (regular). This is our stop, but a look down the road will show a string of strip malls, an empty large box store (with no faded clues as to its previous occupant, but an 80s-style van almost always parked at the front doors), various fast-food establishments and some gas stations-turned-loan and cash-checking service stores. Oh, and there’s Cokesbury – which is a Christian bookstore, but obviously of the snooty, English countryside variety.
The lane up to the Farrington complex is shaped like a backwards question mark, with trees lining the side abutted by a self-storage facility, and duplexes (“Londonberry,” what’s with the British influence around here?). Around the final curve of the question mark, the first buildings of the Farrington appear, one which Google Maps had assured me would be our new home. The addresses posted to the side of the building told me a different story. We turned out to be smack-dab in the middle.
Leaving community commentary behind, and picking up where I left off on the previous post, we pulled both our cars up to the complex office/clubhouse. The offices were upstairs, with stairs leading down to the “clubhouse,” which seemed nice enough, though it was filled with someone’s stuff (e.g., boxes of clothes, lamps, small furniture). There is also a small laundry room around the back of the building.
We initialed and signed countless forms (and poor Bobby had to stand for the entire process, as there was a severe lack of chairs in the place), and were finally handed the keys to our new apartment. We were also told that they’d be doing a walk-through to establish any blemishes that were there before we occupied the space. That walk-through never happened, as far as I know. I went back to the office a week later to inquire about it, and was told that they had many still to do, and that we’d be notified a day before it happened.
That aside, we pulled up into our two designated parking spaces, grabbed a couple things, and stepped onto our new patio. The door to the patio, adjacent to the parking, is officially the “back door.” Though, come on, people – obviously that’s where you’re going to enter your home. Consequently, there’s no light switch to hit as you enter (the backdoor is mostly glass, flanked by two floor-length windows). There’s one large room that acts as the living and dining room. The kitchen is separate, through a doorway. A hall flanked by a half-bath (below the stairs) and the washer and dryer space leads to a coat closet and the “front” door. Across from the front door are the stairs. They lead up to a landing off which is the two bedrooms, a full bath and a skinny linen closet. It’s actually really nice. The only thing was, it was empty.
And it would mostly stay that way for a week and a half.
You see, we had our stuff (boxes and furniture and appliances, etc.) sent via a moving service. We were expecting them to hopefully deliver by the day we arrived (June 24), or at latest the next day.
Well, June 25 came and no call or truck arrived. So Miriam called them. “Them” was at first East Coast Movers, whom we had contacted to move our stuff. They had in turn contacted Anything Anywhere to haul the stuff across country. Miriam was told by the East Coast guy that it was out of his hands and to contact Anything Anywhere. She did, and they said they’d look into it and give us a call back. That call back never came, and the day ended with Miriam and I on the air mattress (thank God for it!) and Bobby on a sleeping bag (I say “on” because it was way too warm to be in it).
The next day, after the morning passes without a return call, Miriam calls again and is given the news that our things have not even left California yet. Yes, they were picked up on June 7, and then sat for nearly a month in a warehouse somewhere in the L.A. area. Long story short on the movers, there was a lot more back-and-forth about getting our things as soon as possible. The finally left California a week after we arrived in South Carolina, and arrived at our door July 7 – the arrival is another story for another post.
In the meantime, we went to Walmart and bought some chairs and a TV tray so Miriam could have a faux-desk. We also got a nice office chair, which is incidentally the same chair from my previous job at All-in-One, when we were at the Charleston Costco. And as the one laptop and that’s it between the both of us situation was coming to a head, and the fact that I would need something for when we go abroad, we went out and got my very first laptop (hell, my very first new any-type-of-computer, as everything before was either built by my brother over time, or was Miriam’s computer).
With the knowledge that our stuff would not be coming any time soon (we joked that the moving company was called Anything Anywhere, but not Anytime), we were both free to bring Bobby down to Charleston to catch his flight back to San Diego (via a stop-over in Atlanta).
We wanted to check out downtown Charleston, so we came in and stopped at the visitor’s center, to get an idea of where to go (especially for lunch). The visitor center was a bit too far of a walk away from the restaurants for us (especially with the heat), so we got back in the sweetly air-conditioned car and relocated to a more central parking structure. We were going to go for BBQ, but ended up going to a place right across the street from the parking garage, 82 Queen, which kind of reminded Miriam and I of Club 33 (secret/private club/restaurant within Disneyland). We had fried green tomatoes for an appetizer, and I was going to get the shrimp and grits, but couldn’t resist the lure of a turkey and brie sandwich. After lunch we drove across the Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge, which is the longest cable-stayed bridge in the Americas (here’s the Wikipedia page on it), to Mt. Pleasant, on through and over a drawbridge, over to Sullivan’s Island, where would formally complete our trip, from coast to coast. The beach was very much as I picture Atlantic beaches. You can see the pictures on at my Picasa space.
Then it was over the bridges and to the airport, where Bobby would begin his journey back to San Diego (from Charleston to Atlanta, and then Atlanta to San Diego, though the plane was delayed in Atlanta, and Bobby didn’t back into San Diego until 2 a.m. PST).
Saying goodbye to Bobby was hard, as he was that last remnant of San Diego that we’d been clinging to. With him there, it was still like a vacation. But once he was gone, we’d have to start getting serious.
After bidding Bobby bye-bye (couldn’t help but alliterate), Miriam and I headed over to the Costco and stocked up on paper towel and toilet paper (Kirkland: the best!) and the aforementioned office chair. Then it was back to Columbia, and our empty apartment.
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