Having lived in New York City for nearly a decade (in six separate residences), I’m convinced that the only variety of New York apartment hunt is the soul-crushingly terrible one.
I never met the landlord at my first rental. My first week in the U.S. was spent in the fog of jet lag, hormones, and tears that came with moving halfway around the world only to find that you kind of forgot to find somewhere to live. I spent a week going from one house to another with growing desperation, trying to choose between the woman who wanted me to sleep in her living room and the landlord who promised he'd finish the kitchen "soon" and forbade overnight guests. I found a good house, took the room, and came back to sign the lease the next day only to find that the toilet had been removed. Everything was awful, until Chris showed up, quietly carried all my bags up the stairs, built my bookcase, and put me with a minimum of fuss into a house of messy, friendly stoners.
I knew from the beginning that I wasn’t in love with the apartment. The living room space was nice in theory, but difficult to appreciate under its permanent cover of the other girls’ stuff and clutter. My bedroom was at the end of a long, narrow hallway, with one high, small north-facing window that provided dingy light in the mornings, and none at all by noon. There was no built-in storage, and the ancient stove ran cold, with one reliable burner and two that never worked at all. The backyard, which had seemed charmingly ramshackle when I first saw it on a nighttime tour, turned out to be brown and barren, and the front porch was filthy with years’ worth of dust and dog hair.
I moved out of my parent’s house in the fall of 2005, and since then I have moved 19 times and had 10 different mailing addresses.
I want to tell you about my things, specifically how they’ve held their value and what they're worth to me. From big-ticket items and impulse buys, down to a pen or cat toy, I’m fascinated by how everything holds some degree of value over time.
I could hear a scratching sound as I moved some of my things into my bedroom from the living room. Matthea nodded. "Yeah, there are squirrels that live in the storage closets." She gestured to two small doors facing each other on opposite sides of the living room. "Just don’t ever open those doors because then they’ll run out." I nodded. It was my first apartment and I didn’t know anything about squirrels yet.