As we left Ann Arbor, I waved to our house vigorously, like it was a person who might wave back. “Good-bye, house,” I said aloud. Then, inside my head, Good-bye, deck. Good-bye, beer tap. Good-bye, large-load washing machine I got on sale at Big George’s.

Good-bye, basement drain that clogs unpredictably.

Good-bye, boxes of photos I should have organized years ago but instead stuck under the futon.

Good-bye, twelve toy light sabers I got suckered into buying because, even though they look alike, my son says they each have a “unique Force crystal.”

The kids waved, too, and we drove toward the airport. Our next home would be an apartment in Umea, Sweden.

The tidbits I knew about the apartment came from my husband. He’d been living there almost three weeks, and he said it was “good” and “homey.” He sent pictures, and I scrutinized them until I had memorized each pixel.

Still, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere but our very own house. And I couldn’t imagine living without all our very own stuff.

Twenty-four hours and three airplanes after we left home, the kids and I entered our Umea apartment for the first time. I collapsed onto a chair that was modern but comfy, and I swept my eyes from corner to corner.

The apartment is tidy and furnished. Its kitchen is stocked with dishes and utensils. There are hardwood floors in most of the rooms. My husband had been right—it is good and homey.

Over the next few days, we sank into the place, unpacked and burrowed and nested. It didn’t take long for us to identify the things we loved. The toilet, for instance, because each flush is like Niagara Falls. So, besides the obvious entertainment value, there’s the total elimination of my old clogging worries.

Also, we have a balcony, just big enough for the four of us. It looks out over our narrow street. During a Swedish July, the sunsets can last for hours.

And there’s the strangely euphoric feeling that comes with living in a small Ikea. Cubbies. Cabinets. Shelves. Nooks. We are rolling around in uncluttered storage spaces, and we have almost nothing to store.

Why had I worried about a life without stuff? It's actually the low-maintenance, worry-free way to go. No one misses the 12 light sabers or anything else, and evening cleanup in our apartment takes about three minutes.

Of course, it’s not all cabinetry and quiet. There are a few downsides to this particular apartment building, and they all live two floors down, in the basement unit.

Our first Saturday night in Umea, the basement tenants congregated outside, below our bedroom window. They were laughing raucously and speaking in loud, loopy Swedish. Every so often, we’d hear the tinny clank of a beer can hitting the pavement.

I peeked out at the crowd and saw that there was no shortage of piercings or combat boots. “We could be in for a long night,” I mumbled to my husband.

I was right. Around 3 in the morning, I heard the thump of a stereo below me, and I braced myself for techno-disco-punk-metal—maybe a Swedish mixture of Sid Vicious and Cyndi Lauper. Instead, at spectacularly loud volumes, I got two full hours of early Beatles.

The basement guys love the Beatles.

The only music they love more is a song I’d heard in the U.S., a pop-y confection by Jason Mraz called, “I’m Yours.” Sometimes, they play it on a loop, 10 times in a row or more.

It’s very bouncy—like something a guest star would sing with Kermit on "The Muppet Show." The lyrics get distorted on their way up to us through floors and ceilings, so we only know one line: "Love, love, love." The rest we have to fill in with do-be-do.

Because we can’t help but engage with this song. It's a gift from below—from basement guys with leather vests and bubblegum sensibilities. We bob our heads, infected by the bounciness, and we move around our new home, singing. Do-be-do-be-do-be, love, love, love.

Heather Heath Chapman and her family are on sabbatical in Umea, Sweden. You may reach her at heatherchapman1@me.com.