Last week I went out apartment shopping solo. I wandered up to a building in Bed-Stuy. I checked my phone again-I was at the right place. I was told, via text message, to buzz apartment 3 and Clive would let me in.
I buzzed 3 and Clive let me in. He poked his head out of his apartment and told me “Second floor #10” before shutting his door, reggae music playing in the back ground. I walked up one flight of stairs and pushed open #10.
I walked into the smallest living room I’ve ever entered. It had three small windows all facing the street, a small kitchen (if you can call it that) and small bathroom (with a tub so it’s OK) and a small bedroom with one window that looked out onto a brick wall. I like to imagine that several decades ago I could’ve seen Manhattan views or even a garden if I looked out that window.
One bedroom window plus the three in the living room equals four windows. I walked back into the non-existant kitchen. Smallest kitchen on the planet with a miniature stove, minimal cabinet space and an oddly placed refridgerator.
I walked back into the bedroom. No closet.
I walked back into the bathroom. Tub.
I walked back into the living room for the third time and a smile widened across my face-I was in love.
I immediately imagined the possiblities. Clearly, another lock on the door and no place to store my bike. No closet and endless amounts of clothes. Small kitchen and a Kitchen Aide Stand Up Mixer as a wet dream and no place to put it. Couldn’t do dinner parties, unless I got creative.
Still, all mine. Just me and a cat. (Note to self-Find a cat)
I walked out of the apartment, went down to Clive’s to thank him but he didn’t hear me knocking. I sent an e-mail to my new landlord, Scott. After a lot of paperwork, a lot of negotiating, and a serious lecture about my excessive spending and lack of saving I’m moving into my very own apartment.