I believe it was William Blake who once said, "without contraries is no progression." Either that, or I fabricated the quotation from insomnia-induced stupor in college. The point, however, is that opposites - aside from begin annoying - make up a large part of the universe.

They're everywhere. Food that tastes great is bad for you. Food that is good for you tastes bad. The smarter someone is, the less likely he is to be able to give good directions. And during my last week in Saranac Lake before driving across the country to enroll in a Master's degree program in Logan, Utah, it felt like the busiest week of my life. Simultaneously, I had absolutely nothing to do.

Here's why: it's true that I had to pack my truck, sell or throw out a large portion of belongings and say goodbye to as many people as I could find, but on the other hand, I had no media to speak of. No stereo, no computer and no TV. Everything to distract me was packed, including my books. With little other choice, I relied on what was left. Other people.

Being at the behest of others isn't so bad. Sure, you have to wait until 4 p.m., when the average person gets out of work, to see anyone. But if you ignore that minor inconvenience, people can be quite entertaining.

The only problem is, most people react the same way when they find out you have nothing to do. "If you're not busy later," they say, "would you mind doing me a favor?"

The young ace reporter at the Enterprise reporter who replaced me (who shall remain nameless) was one of several people to all upon the Lavin work ethic. Since he'd only just begun to move into his new place, he asked me to help him bring a couch from Lake Placid to his apartment. We would be picking up the couch from another friend of mine, a teacher at the Northwood School. Accosted on both sides, I found myself the meaty center of a work ethic sandwich.

It is important to understand that my philosophy on exercise to date was not particularly proactive. I made it a habit, for example, to run only when I was being chased. My idea of a brisk walk involved walking to my truck at night to bring in my groceries. For exercise, I would usually just lie on back and breathe at the same time. I would reach my peak heart rate in seconds.

It is also important to note that I am a skinny and non-muscular sort of chap. My entire body is made of the material that comprises the soft spot on top of a baby's head. This is of course an advantage if I am trying to store myself an overhead compartment, but otherwise, it's kind of a drag.

What use is a day laborer with the strength of Gumby on tranquilizers?

Well, I do own a truck, after all.

We pulled up on a sunny afternoon and made our way up the three flights of stairs we would shortly be limping down. The job didn't sound particularly difficult: one couch between three people. We quickly realized, however, that the couch was more than it seemed to be. Upon inspecting it, we found that it was a homemade sofa, constructed of plywood, lead weights, a large slab of granite, a few bags of mixed cement and a ton of gold for extra weight.

Now it may not be a tried and true contradiction, but I find it interesting that something designed to be used for comfort could cause so much pain. But that's the nice part of about contraries: If you look hard enough, they're everywhere.

For example, as we carried the couch down the stairs, I noticed a sign attached to the exit.

"Do not prop," it read, "under any circumstances." Beneath the sign was a bungee cord, holding the door open.

If there's one plus side to doing people favors, it's that they feel compelled to buy you things: crystal vases, fines linens, Mercedes or at least a beer.

Day after day, I found myself going to the Adirondacks region's outstanding local bars (gift certificates can be mailed to Matt Lavin), playing pool and wiling away the afternoons (or mornings) with whomever I recognized.

Surely, it wasn't all beer and pool. Once, I played ping-pong. Once, I tried ironing a shirt. And then once, shortly after my attempt, I threw an extremely similar shirt in the garbage. The strangest thing had happened: someone had broken into my apartment and vandalized the shirt with a large iron-shaped black permanent marker.

Which brings me to one of the toughest parts of leaving Saranac Lake. In order to make the trip to Logan, Utah, I had to ditch a truckload of furniture and other belongings. It's never easy to throw out something you love, even if it serves no apparent purpose and you got it for free. All totaled, I threw out a bicycle, a rug, a desk, an old VCR and a fan, I gave a few choice items to charity, but most of it went straight into the chasm.

Feeling vaguely guilty about contributing to the problem of runaway capitalist waste, I prepared myself to exit the North Country. I loaded my truck the night before I left. It was so full that the suspension was sagging like an old sock full of quarters. Nevertheless, I was confident about the drive. Confident, at least, that it would be an experience worth remembering.

I spent my final evening on Upper Saranac Lake at one of my former professor's summer house. A few choice friends and my college advisor were also there. We rode out on a motorboat and did our best not to use clichés to describe the natural world around us. It's difficult to avoid them, however, because so many people have been inspired to write about those surroundings. I've decided to permit myself one cliché, and that's this: it was the perfect way to spend my last day in the Adirondacks.

In reflecting on my departure, I've noticed one more contrary that seems perfectly clear to me today. It isn't until you move away from somewhere that you can really talk about what it is you're leaving behind.