This past Monday, we moved into our new condo. It was a hellish process of packing. We started last Friday and didn't stop until Monday morning at 9:00 am, about an hour before the movers arrived. This move didn't feel as 'major' as our last move from Dallas to Washington. After all, 1327 miles is much much more than 2. But don't let distance deceive you. The long distance move and short distance move might be different animals, but they're the same species. Yes, I thought the proximity of our same-city move, the fact that the two places were only 2 miles apart, would mean less packing less things that I would have to box up. What I learned is that even though that is the case, it's not necessarily a good thing. You begin to get careless. True, I did not have to wrap every wall hanging in cardboard because I could simply drive my frames over there. But I'll say this: when we moved to Dallas, not a single frame was scratched. This time, I scratched two and broke one. Here's a couple more stats:

Number of items broken:
Dallas to DC - 0
Kalorama to South Logan - 3

Number of items lost:
Dallas to DC - 0
Kalorama to South Logan - 1

So you see, it appears easier at first, and then you realize how terribly wrong you are.

But I didn't start this intending to launch into endless complaint and woe. I really had a much more noble task in mind: to describe one of the guys who moved us, a guy by the name of Constantine. Or as I like to call him, Constantine the Philosophical Moving Man. We began our conversation, Constantine and I, talking about books. He was, after all, moving boxes of my books, lifting them and taking them from point a (my closet) to point b (our hallway) so that his cohort could move them down the stairs. I felt bad for him because he was tall like me and I know how much my back would howl and complain doing what he was doing.

'Are you a student?' he asked. He had a eastern European accent, but I couldn't place it exactly. And the name wasn't giving anything away.

I smiled. 'It certainly seems like I should be, doesn't it?' I waited for some kind of acknowledgement of the irony, but it never came. Finally, I said, 'No, I just have lots of books. I was an English major in college. Too bad for you guys, right?'

'I find it hard to read in English. I can do it, but I just don't feel the words, you know.'

'Where are you from?' I asked, breaking down and admitting I could not place his accent.

'Russia. My mom married an American and we moved here when I was 16.'

I nodded, not sure quite what to say next. 'Yeah, I know what you mean. I could read in French when I was in college, but I never felt what I was reading. It was more of a cold process.'

'I prefer reading philosophy, though. I like to wake up each morning and read a bit of philosophy. It helps get me started. It's like my nourishment for the day.' He proceeded to tell me how he lived out of his car. How his co-workers said he smelled of his car because of it, and his car smelled of him. 'But,' he said, 'in five years they'll still be moving boxes and I won't.'

This sounded very romantic, but I knew, in reality, it probably wasn't. I inquired what he might be doing in five years instead of this. He mentioned something about travel, but it sounded vague.

Then he continued to talk about philosophy. He ran off names of philosophers I had never heard of before. Every time I mentioned a philosopher I liked and knew something about (Nietzche or Wittgenstein) he would launch into a new treatise on the merits and deficiencies of that philosopher. He liked to talk about how Nietzche and Kierkegaard wrote in a very unstructured manner. How they were all about 'energy' - about getting the thought on paper and not worrying about form. Constantine moved with a nervous energy. When he spoke, he spoke decisively, like he had always known what he was going to say and had just now found the right time to say it.

'Did you study philosophy in school?' I asked.

'No. I enjoy reading philosophy on my own, but never studied it in any formal way. No philosopher I know ever actually studied philosophy. They were normal guys who did normal things. And wrote philosophy.'

I wasn't sure about that one, but I gave it to him anyway. I wondered if Constantine saw himself this way.

'No, I studied history. I'm good with dates, names, places, times. '

I hadn't put my finger on what was bugging me, but suddenly it occurred to me. Constantine was obviously very knowledgeable on the subject of philosophy. He knew the names. He knew the dates. He knew the titles. He knew which philosophers had which theories and which subsequent philosophers had disproved those theories. And he had a very specific take on each and every one. But I've always been a bit skeptical of those who would simplify philosophical theories down to bite-sized nuggets of single-sentence wisdom. In the end, philosophy is much more complicated than that.

Still, I was impressed. Not because he knew all these many things about philosophy, but because he could expound on the subject as easily as most of us expound on what we had for dinner or the movie we saw last weekend. And to do this all while lifting and moving heavy boxes and furniture, in a language that was not his first. I mean, I've read a few works of philosophy. I've taken a few philosophy classes. I know that it usually takes most of my energy to speak knowledgeably on the subject. It would also take most of my energy to move furniture and boxes. So it would definitely exhaust me to do both at the same time.

I guess I'll never be a Moving Man Philosopher.


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