When I opened the shade on my bedroom window on Monday, I was dismayed to see another few inches of snow on the ground. Since I was in West Greenwich, it was scenic: the snow had fallen delicately on the branches of the pine trees, so it looked like outlines on the dark green needles. I wasn't in the mood for the bucolic. I had shit to do, so the white stuff was a hindrance.
I went downstairs and found my Mom puttering around the kitchen, worrying about the fact that there wasn't much in the way of breakfast. "You're here earlier than I expected," she said, pulling eggs that my uncle brought over from his menagerie across the street. "I bought special ravioli, but I don't have much breakfast food."
I rubbed my Mom's back. "It's okay, Mom. Do you have eggs and coffee?"
"Decaf," she replied. I knew we'd be making a stop at Dunkin Donuts before we headed to Ikea.
After a breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast (very satisfying, thanks Mom!) and some more washing and drying of laundry ("So it's more of a tour of New England's free washers and dryers?" my Mom commented) Kristen and I got ready to leave. After earning $10 for coffee and donuts by shoveling the walk and clearing the snow off of my Mom's car, we stopped for gas and caffeinated coffee.
"My body isn't pleased with the clever ruse I tried to pull," Kristen said, flipping the top of her large coffee back and taking a greedy sip of the caffeinated coffee.
"Mine either. But the decaf tasted good," I said, balancing the iced coffee in my hand as I pulled out of the parking lot and onto 95 South.
Let the record show: I hate Connecticut. I know good people from Connecticut (my roommate Deb, family friends) but I can't stand that damn state. Every time I venture off the highway I get lost. There's very little in the way of good restaurants. On 95, you'll be traveling at 70 miles an hour, then suddenly feel the G-forces as you break to travel 45 miles an hour for no noticeable reason. But, until this fall, Connecticut is the home of the only Ikea in the New England area, in New Haven.
Previously known for it's prestigious Ivy League university (Yale), now New Haven is known by fashion-savvy bargain hunters as the home of Ikea. My friend Ehrin and I ventured there on opening day/my birthday this summer and left with some bedsheets, a cheese grater and an intense hatred of humanity. Ehrin was screaming at obnoxious pricks from New York who kept hitting her with their cart and I was trying to get out to make it back to Providence for dinner with friends that evening and was sick of said obnoxious pricks getting in my way.
I drove to Ikea ("You like driving, so I'm going to let you," Kristen said as she played with the CD player) and warned Kristen that she would hate everyone when she left.
"People are rude. They stand in front of everything you want. You have to be ruthless. But you'll leave with so much great stuff for cheap, so it's all worth it once you're away from it."
"I'm willing to take this risk," she replied, "because the coffee tables there are twenty-four American dollars. Twenty-four! And I am in need of a coffee table, so this is excellent."
When we got to Ikea, I was amazed to see that there has hardly anyone there. The first time I visited Ikea, I had to wait for over half an hour to get a spot. The second time, two people nearly got into a fistfight over the parking spot my friends and I were vacating. Third time is apparently a charm, because Kristen and I could actually see the entrance from where we parked.
We walked through the slushy parking lot and into the big blue and yellow warehouse known as Ikea. When you enter, you walk up a staircase to the showroom, where the particleboard is assembled in attractive combinations. There's setups for spacious homes, there's examples of small studio apartments, kitted out in the finest assemble-it-yourself housewares. Kristen and I stopped in the first setup, which featured dark bookshelves and a bed with a fluffy corduroy comforter on it.
"I am so happy," I cried, looking up at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the power of housewares.
"Holy crap, I want this," Kristen said, checking the price tag.
We wandered through the endless maze of furnishings. We oohed at the $200 couches. We sniffled over the beauty of stainless steel countertops. We sat on the couches, on the beds, on the office chairs. We contemplated buying alarm clocks. Kristen saw a coffee table for twenty American dollars.
After you wander the labyrinth of assembled furniture, you make your way downstairs again to visit the housewares section. You can buy plates, teapots, flatware, shag rugs and shower curtains ("for $1.98, American!" Kristen exclaimed). This is where the hatred of humanity begins in earnest. People stop in the middle of narrow aisles and glare at you when you try to walk by. The carts, due to some strange Swedish engineering, drift to the right so it's an endless battle to navigate. People can barely see over the piles of stuff in the carts. It's bedlam, even on a day when the parking is easy.
Then we moved on to the home decor section, which I made myself not buy anything. My apartment is in dire need of some wall art, but I tried to remember that all the money I had was spent on a red wool coat. We moved on to bedding. We moved on to lighting. We moved on to gardening, where I nearly bought a shrubbery for $10, but figured it would be hard to fit in the already crowded car.
When we were done buying comforter covers and reading lights, we moved on to the warehouse, which is the last stop before the registers. The store loses all pretense of hominess when you reach this point-- it looks and feels like Home Depot. The warehouse is where you find the beautiful furniture that you saw assembled and you then remember that you need to assemble the wardrobe, shelving unit, bookshelf, nightstand and bedframe that you liked upstairs when you get it home. It's sobering, but a monument to Swedish efficiency. Every box is compact, without a spare inch of room. Americans wrap things in plastic and large boxes, carelessly wasting space. The fine people Ikea get it tight and right.
Kristen picked up her $20 coffee table and we both picked up a $20 bookshelf. Sure, it's particleboard, but it's handsome particleboard, and it will make the stacks of books that I'm forever knocking off surfaces in my room look neat. So I can buy more books to stack and be a pain in the ass to move. We made our way to the registers, and I prepared for doom.
The total came to $89. Which is a lot of money. But let me tell you what I got for that:
- a light comforter to put in my comforter cover (also from Ikea) in the summer so I don't sweat to death under my winter blanket
- a mortar and pestle (mojito season is coming!)
- three shower curtains
- a rod that I thought would hold my curtains, but is too big
- a flour sifter
- two magazine holders
- a bookshelf
- two gifts for the kids I babysit for, whose birthdays are coming up
- a shelf to display pictures and books
- 100 tealights
"This is the happiest place on Earth," I said as I munched on my cinnamon bun. "I was just at Disney, and let me tell you, this place is way more fun."
"No kidding. I heart Ikea," Kristen agreed, squirting relish onto her hot dog.
We got back in the car and I drove us back to Rhode Island. We met my friend Sharon at the cheapest eating establishment she could think of, had a few beers and dinner. Kristen and I slogged through the slush and I drove us back to Boston.
And that was the great road trip of Aught Five, as Kristen calls it. I spent a huge amount of money. I spent a huge amount of time with Kristen, and didn't want to kill her. I ate a huge amount of food and enjoyed every minute of it.
I think I'll post some bits of conversation that really didn't fit in with the summary of what happened, because they are hilarious.
1 comment:
For what it's worth, said coffee table supports my laptop, a beer, a bagel and both my feet nicely. Thanks, Sweden!
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