Good morning, Tuesday. It's hot out there, I'm so glad to be in here. So as a workman who came to fix a leak in my ceiling yesterday took an excruciatingly long dump in my bathroom, I realized something. New York apartment living is a lot like life. Too much perhaps.
We all live in places that reflect our tastes, income, and place in life. Our homes say a lot about us for obvious reasons- from the gilded tack of Trump Tower to Georgia O'Keefe's stripped down chic in New Mexico. But if you do or have ever lived in New York City and its environs, you know that living here is often a mirror into a carnival ride of emotions and moments and symbols.
I have lived in many ways in New York City. Those apartments and habitats read like a list of discarded lovers.
I have lived in a one bedroom shared with a woman I did not know and slept on a futon for several years. This was my first experience living in New York, and the apartment was merely a vessel for all that I was to discover outside its walls. The space meant little to me; just as most things did back then- I did not particularly care about finding love, career success, or much of anything else except climbing into the woodwork of Manhattan. And that I did.
Many places followed- the first stint in Brooklyn, in a beautiful little jewel box on Bergen Street that felt like protection from the world when I needed it the most. Back then Brooklyn may as well have been the moon. But there were trees, and shade and children playing, and truly, that's all I needed. Until I didn't. New York living is indeed like a love- the smell of fresh paint seduces you, the promise of more closet space, the revelation of a garden. But suddenly, and just like that, you outgrow it, and then you move on.
I went back to the island of Manhattan some time later, to a studio apartment on the Upper East Side. It was small, and smelled of gas. But it was my first apartment on my own, and it was there I grew up a little. Much like your first grown up relationship, it may not be physically exactly what you're after, but it shows you stuff you didn't know you could see. Plus there was a decent diner downstairs and I was often comforted by their late night sounds of dishwashing and plate clanking. It provided a soundtrack of sorts for my very noisy mind at that time of life.
After that there was Stuyvesant Town, another step in maturity that felt necessary. The apartment itself was truly a step up; a gift from some far off Apartment God who somehow connected me with someone whose family had been on that infamous list forever and wanted a subletter to keep the dream alive. I was living there during 9/11, and somehow its middle class hamlet vibe was what I needed at that time. There was green space, there was light. But there were very few subway lines nearby. And for that reason, I outgrew this place too.
There were more places- a tiny apartment in Soho that felt more like a psych ward cell in a designer prison, and then there were spaces in Miami, and then, there was New York again. Another apartment, another love affair, another life ended, and another began.
Hello, Brooklyn.
We recently moved out of the apartment we had been in for just over five years. David found it for us and truly, it was perfection. Until it wasn't.
We had a yard. We had a duplex. We had two bathrooms. We were living in a posh neighborhood that felt leafy, perfect, beautiful. And as I came to rediscover the city and pursue my freelance career, this apartment tripped me up somehow. Because there was no light. Absolutely zero natural light. So even though on paper this apartment provided everything we needed including the bonus of not having to put on a bra to take Khan out to pee, it was dark. And that made us a little dark. Oh and all my clothes lived in a storage space across the hall. And we slept in a basement. That has to be a metaphor for something somehow. And then our landlord sold the building, and we panicked. Because even though we were in the dark and our bed was in the basement, we were not quite ready to give this place up. But the universe had other plans I suppose.
So cut to now, where I'm living on a third floor walkup in the same glorious neighborhood, on a far more beautiful block. I know I've written about this place before, but this place. The most beautiful floors. Natural light. Tasteful kitchen. But not without sacrifices. Because our second bedroom became my closet, to house all the clothes and shoes and stuff I've collected from this lifetime. And what does that mean? That we don't really have room for guests. Because my stuff needs a place to live. And I'm ok with that. Because right now, I feel a big breakthrough happening and perhaps I need my stuff around me- literally and figuratively to feel it out. Or maybe I just have too much shit. Either way.
But even though this apartment is lovely and sexy and super pretty, there are things. As there always are in New York dwellings.
What are those things? The mailbox system is confusing. I never know when I'm going to get mail and which mailbox it will be in. Hmm. The bathroom is right behind the kitchen, which is always a little weird. We're on the third floor and sometimes the steps make my knees ache. The constant construction makes me feel less like I’m in Brooklyn and more like Beirut. But then I look at my beautiful bedroom, so simple and light filled and lovely, and realize how wonderful this apartment is. Because I'm spending a lot of time here lately, working alone, going through this blog and trying to put together something of note to present to the world in the form of some essays, a book perhaps. And just as I'm consoling myself that everything's going to be alright, the guy who came to fix the leak in my ceiling disappears into my bathroom for an obscenely long time and makes me remember that there is nothing truly idyllic about apartment living in New York, particularly when you're renting. And just like life and sometimes love, all the beauty in the world can't protect you from a hot dump. And that's the truth. It's not enough to make me want to flee the premises of course, I'm holding on to this place for a good stretch. Because as a (ugh) grown up on the verge of yet another birthday next month, I'm well aware that there's always something there to remind us that life is not perfect, love is not perfect, we are not perfect. I'm sure the gentleman who chose to assassinate my Aesop product filled bathroom had not a single thought of this situation, but somehow he was a reminder of how weird it all is- this life, this living, all of it.
And truly, many of my friends have purchased their apartments and good for them. But we live in a city where you can't afford to commit, so that says something- we can only afford impermanence, or that's what most of us end up with, though we somehow make it our own. The transience of New York living is not lost on me. Many rent the same apartment for years and years, I tend to switch them out when I'm done with them. Love 'em and leave 'em I guess. It's funny- when people buy the first thing they do is tear down what exists- we renters learn to live with what we have, for better or worse.
Let's hope today is dump free. Until it isn't.
Cause that's what's up this New York life of a Tuesday in the 718. Yours, in living, loving, and apartment dwelling. XO