Yesterday we moved my brother Spenser and all his stuff into his new apartment in Ballston Spa, which is about a half an hour’s drive north of Troy. After the heavy lifting was done we ordered pizza, and as we ate I realized that Spenser will be the third member of my family who has lived in New York (my sister Veronica attended Cornell). When we were younger we took a lot of family road trips, but apart from going to Niagara Falls and a few days camping in the Adirondacks we didn’t spend too much time in New York. That’s too bad because as I’ve been finding out over the last year and a half, it’s a pretty remarkable place, soul-crushing winters aside.
Driving back to his apartment, Spenser and I recalled that while crossing New York on one of our family trips we’d left the highway for some reason and actually drove right through Ballston Spa.
“And now you live here,” I said. “It’s odd how that works out.”
He nodded, and I added that I felt the same feeling when I thought about Albany. Back in 2008 when I was in the midst of driving to Maine and back as quickly as I could, I passed through Albany twice on I-90.
“If someone had told me that in three years I’d be living there…,” I chuckled.
“You’d have said they were insane?”
“Not quite…but given the life I had in Chicago I just don’t think that I could have envisioned any possible scenario that ended with me moving to Albany, New York.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Here we are. It’s not such a bad place.”
“Your winters still suck, though.”