The key factoid is that we couldn't afford to stay in our old place (my not having a regular income for 9+ years will do that), and The Wife managed to get it sold and found a place she liked that we were able to get. Here's our new place:
We've gone from living on the 46th floor to living on the 6th floor (isn't that iconic for "having come down in the world"?), and are now in the midst of four-plus-ones and rehab housing rather than the boozy climes of Rush Street's "Viagra Triangle", which was my neighborhood for a solid forty years.
Because of my psychological issues (see previous post), I was not much included in the process of selling/buying/etc., as my offing myself was a very real possibility at any point in that. They just needed me for my signature here and there. Fortunately, the new place was familiar to me, and is a big concrete chunk of Chicago history, being the surviving part of the famed Edgewater Beach Hotel complex that was a major resort destination from the 1920's on. Before the City extended Lake Shore Drive north of Foster, the lake came right up to the side of the building here, giving both the hotel and the apartments private beaches. With the extension of LSD, the beach was a couple of blocks away, dooming the hotel, which got torn down about 50 years ago. While moving was a trauma that I never wanted (I had intended to die in my old place), at least moving into a building on the National Register of Historic Places took a bit of sting off.
But that was before the move.
The move was more hideous that even my "worst case scenario" spinning mind could have imagined. Frankly, had I had any idea of what was in store, I'd have been out one of those 46th floor windows and ended up as a mess in the middle of State St.
