flames
They say that you can call yourself a New Yorker after you’ve lived in the city for five years. I don’t know who “they” are that made this rule, but apparently I make the cut.
I started out on the Upper West Side nearly six years ago and since then I have relocated roughly every two years (save for a brief but hellish stint in a commercial space on Canal with seven guys as housemates; it was a misguided decision on my part but I was drawn in by the absurdness, as well as the Real Worldness, of the situation at the time). I have made my way through the West Village, to the Lower East Side and now, to Brooklyn.
While I have moved downwards and eastwards from a geographic perspective, I continue to move onwards and upwards in terms of quality of life. Each of my apartments has had its pros and cons (save for the above-mentioned Canal street debacle, which was just heinous all around), but they have all fit my needs and wants, and the stage of life that I was in, at the time.
My place in the West Village was tiny tiny, but at least I had a legitimate room (versus a pod made of temporary walls and featuring a take-out window, to allow “fresh” air to breeze in from the living room). And, I was smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood filled to the brim with charming little restaurants and bars; perfect for me as I began to court food, drink and dining out with heightened intensity.
The Lower East Side provided me with a break in rent and the much needed experience of living alone, not to mention amazing and accessible restaurants. The LES is known for its “hipster” appeal--- apparently it has a great music scene, as well as tons of bars. Truth be told, I will never be a hipster, despite the wacky clothes. Good food and drink with friends, or alone, was always what turned me on and a bar or two after that a lucky strike extra.
As of this past Thursday I have relocated to Brooklyn--- Boerum Hill to be exact (but not too exact). I have moved in with my good friend Becky (otherwise known as Pink Pelvis) and her two very lovely Colombian roommates. While I may be in the midst of a “honeymoon period”, so to speak, so far so good--- I am enjoying the company and adore our spacious, charming apartment. The change of scene was also much needed on my part, as well as was another cut in rent.
I am superstitious and I want to say that I knew it was going to be a dreamy new living situation as soon as the moving van from Schlepper’s pulled up to my apartment. But, that would be a lie. In all honesty, I just want to tell this story:
I was sitting in a coffee shop/bar on Clinton and Stanton--- the one without the sign but which I believe is called “Lotus Lounge”--- waiting for the arrival of Schlepper’s. When they called and said that they were running about an hour and a half late, I muttered “bloody hell” and was quickly inspired to move from my cappuccino to a Bloody Mary. I wanted to sooth my nerves as well as to take advantage of the bar’s 4pm start for happy hour, perhaps for the last time. Time passed and I received a call telling me that my two moving men would be arriving in a few minutes. As I left “Lotus” I saw an enormous, bright orange Schlepper’s van approaching my apartment. I quickened my pace and greeted Moving Man #1 just as he lowered himself out of the van and to the ground. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Hi there- I think you’re moving me. My name’s “Ali”, what’s yours?
Moving man #1: “My name is “Fire”.
Me: Fire huh? As in…(cut to me interpreting upward-moving flames, utilizing my hands and hissing noises)?
Fire: Yep, that’s right. And damn, I saw you walking there on the street and was just about to yell out the window to you, “Damn girl, you are F-I-N-E. Fine.”* Now I’m really glad that I didn’t do that.
Me: I'm glad you didn't either, Fire.
*Do keep in mind that I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, running sneakers and a knit cap; there was nothing fine about the way that I looked, though I appreciated the positive feedback.
For the record, Fire and Moving Man #2, Juan, did an impeccable job and even let me ride over to Brooklyn with them in their big van. Juan had a fun time trying to convince me that it was the first time he had ever driven a commercial truck.
I started out on the Upper West Side nearly six years ago and since then I have relocated roughly every two years (save for a brief but hellish stint in a commercial space on Canal with seven guys as housemates; it was a misguided decision on my part but I was drawn in by the absurdness, as well as the Real Worldness, of the situation at the time). I have made my way through the West Village, to the Lower East Side and now, to Brooklyn.
While I have moved downwards and eastwards from a geographic perspective, I continue to move onwards and upwards in terms of quality of life. Each of my apartments has had its pros and cons (save for the above-mentioned Canal street debacle, which was just heinous all around), but they have all fit my needs and wants, and the stage of life that I was in, at the time.
My place in the West Village was tiny tiny, but at least I had a legitimate room (versus a pod made of temporary walls and featuring a take-out window, to allow “fresh” air to breeze in from the living room). And, I was smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood filled to the brim with charming little restaurants and bars; perfect for me as I began to court food, drink and dining out with heightened intensity.
The Lower East Side provided me with a break in rent and the much needed experience of living alone, not to mention amazing and accessible restaurants. The LES is known for its “hipster” appeal--- apparently it has a great music scene, as well as tons of bars. Truth be told, I will never be a hipster, despite the wacky clothes. Good food and drink with friends, or alone, was always what turned me on and a bar or two after that a lucky strike extra.
As of this past Thursday I have relocated to Brooklyn--- Boerum Hill to be exact (but not too exact). I have moved in with my good friend Becky (otherwise known as Pink Pelvis) and her two very lovely Colombian roommates. While I may be in the midst of a “honeymoon period”, so to speak, so far so good--- I am enjoying the company and adore our spacious, charming apartment. The change of scene was also much needed on my part, as well as was another cut in rent.
I am superstitious and I want to say that I knew it was going to be a dreamy new living situation as soon as the moving van from Schlepper’s pulled up to my apartment. But, that would be a lie. In all honesty, I just want to tell this story:
I was sitting in a coffee shop/bar on Clinton and Stanton--- the one without the sign but which I believe is called “Lotus Lounge”--- waiting for the arrival of Schlepper’s. When they called and said that they were running about an hour and a half late, I muttered “bloody hell” and was quickly inspired to move from my cappuccino to a Bloody Mary. I wanted to sooth my nerves as well as to take advantage of the bar’s 4pm start for happy hour, perhaps for the last time. Time passed and I received a call telling me that my two moving men would be arriving in a few minutes. As I left “Lotus” I saw an enormous, bright orange Schlepper’s van approaching my apartment. I quickened my pace and greeted Moving Man #1 just as he lowered himself out of the van and to the ground. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Hi there- I think you’re moving me. My name’s “Ali”, what’s yours?
Moving man #1: “My name is “Fire”.
Me: Fire huh? As in…(cut to me interpreting upward-moving flames, utilizing my hands and hissing noises)?
Fire: Yep, that’s right. And damn, I saw you walking there on the street and was just about to yell out the window to you, “Damn girl, you are F-I-N-E. Fine.”* Now I’m really glad that I didn’t do that.
Me: I'm glad you didn't either, Fire.
*Do keep in mind that I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, running sneakers and a knit cap; there was nothing fine about the way that I looked, though I appreciated the positive feedback.
For the record, Fire and Moving Man #2, Juan, did an impeccable job and even let me ride over to Brooklyn with them in their big van. Juan had a fun time trying to convince me that it was the first time he had ever driven a commercial truck.
posted by ap at 3:41:00 PM
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