by Will Schreiber

Four years ago

Four years ago, I was in Nashville at a friend’s house, eating shrimp, drinking Bud Light. The election was called not long after we finished dinner. I remember thinking even Trump looked surprised.

Sam and I walked back to our house on the other side of 12th South. It was cold.

Two weeks later, I loaded my bed and Apple Cinema Display into a Penske truck and drove up I-65.

I first lived in Gold Coast, walking distance to The Loop in downtown Chicago. I went to Carmax to sell my car. I bought my first down coat. I started reading Vonnegut novels. I fell in love with riding the L.

Then I moved up to Lakeview. I got a tortilla press. I started a sourdough culture. We paid ourselves with money from Bottle for the first time.

Our apartment overlooked the Paulina Brown Line stop. I worked from my bedroom, but enjoyed watching people run from Starbucks with their coffees in hand, trying to catch the morning train.

Then I sold my Ikea bed and Ikea desk and Ikea chairs. I packed a 55L Osprey backpack. We left Chicago.

I stocked up on Rx Bars from the Midtown Atlanta Industrious. I didn’t know if I could trust China Southern’s inflight dinner.

I flew to Phnom Penh. We looked at all those temples near Siem Reap. We crossed the border into Laos, went backpacking in the jungle, ate noodles in Pai, crashed a motorbike, lived a yuppie month in Bali, slept out of a minivan at the bottom of Mt. Cook, spent the winter skiing in Sun Valley, and drove a Subaru from San Francisco to Bar Harbor, Maine.

Then we settled down again. We moved to San Francisco. We landed in SOMA before moving to Alama Square.

I went to Napa for the first time, got a coworking membership, and even bought an Arcteryx bag for run-commuting.

Then we quarantined. Then we bought a new Subaru. Then we left.

It’s a new election night. I can’t believe it’s been four years.