The Apartment II

I'm sitting in the 57th street Starbucks, trying to find things to do to stay out of the way of the movers. They've been packing for two hours so far, and I expect we have about five more hours before my little 56th street apartment is empty again.



Husband did not like the 56th street apartment, and I suppose, from a real estate perspective, I can understand why. It was overpriced, old, drafty, dark, scratched, and crowded. It represented all of the annoyances of the city with none of the upsides.



But I loved it ferociously, and it's flaws made me want to love it more: to fix it, scrub it up, add another light fixture, refinish the floors, and replace the old pipes. I celebrated its scanty accomplishments and forgave its many disappointments. The thick walls and dark paint were comforting and womb-like for me. At the end of noisy and cold days, I would look around at my red and gold walls and feel like I lived in a jewelry box. The smallness of the apartment made me feel like I had burrowed securely into the city, nestled closely against my family, my books, and my kitchen. I would heft the stroller up the six front stairs, unlock the old front door made of glass and curly metal, and jiggle my key into the door of Number 1C (it took some jiggling, believe me). As the door closed behind me and I turned on the light and stepped out of my shoes, I felt the satisfaction of clicking the last piece into a jigsaw puzzle.



I loved learning about previous tenants of the apartment: the college students who lived there before us in a mish-mash of loft beds and futons, the gay couple who had kept the place cleaner than it had ever been, the voice teacher who hosted his Christmas party for more than a hundred people in it. It made me happy to think that New Yorkers had been occupying this space since 1910. New Yorkers like me.



It was the first place that Baby recognized as home, and in a way, it was the first place that I recognized as home. It was my little Eden, my First Place.