I am enveloped by “end of semester” right now even though I am not graduating from my cube.
The end of the school year felt like stolen moments and brief bouts of realization. That these were times I would reminisce about later and the thought if I could just appreciate them as they unfolded, they’d remain perennial. Available for me to call upon when it was cold or lonely or when bills were due. It didn’t work then, and it doesn’t work now.
It feels like the end of an era. People are moving away and moving as the weather warms. I am departing from my one great love, one that I will remember forever, no matter how many or how few come after it, no matter how wrinkled and faded I become…
I can barely say the words. I have to move out of my apartment. The apartment I adore, in the neighborhood I cherish. I sigh with longing for what we shared (last year’s Cinco de Mayo party, the central air that I’ll never know again, the bedroom I can actually walk around in, the window inviting light onto the dresser…). And like all breakups, one party is bearing the brunt of mourning. This time, it’s me. My apartment, or should I say, my soon-to-be-ex apartment, seems just fine with it. It has legions of girls (and boys, as my apartment is free-wheeling and bi-habitat) just like me but a little bit better clamoring for its attention, lines even, girls who are willing to bend more, pay more, but as I suspect, appreciate less.
I can’t make the apartment want me as much as I want it, particularly when its standards have risen far beyond the bonds of my bank account. Not when there is this much competition. The August search for Manhattan housing is one of the most heartbreaking acts I think I will ever participate in. I’ve done it twice and am gearing up for a third. I am worse for the wear.
Last night I began, shoving thoughts out of mind of how no other neighborhood will suit me, how no other water pressure will bead as hard. I talked myself into a stretch of Canal Street littered with trash and wire-locked I heart NY tee-shirt shops. Up the stairs to a surly man and his slight girlfriend who immediately insisted I take off my shoes, that though he knew I could not move in until August and still asked me to come by to look, sternly barked that it was not flexible and that was that. And the room was small and cramped and unwelcoming and it was $1200 to share a little bathroom with three other people and most likely, a type-written list of house rules (no guests, no laughing, no breathing).
Sometimes, change is not good. I wish the semester of my apartment didn’t have to end. I don’t want to graduate.
The end of the school year felt like stolen moments and brief bouts of realization. That these were times I would reminisce about later and the thought if I could just appreciate them as they unfolded, they’d remain perennial. Available for me to call upon when it was cold or lonely or when bills were due. It didn’t work then, and it doesn’t work now.
It feels like the end of an era. People are moving away and moving as the weather warms. I am departing from my one great love, one that I will remember forever, no matter how many or how few come after it, no matter how wrinkled and faded I become…
I can barely say the words. I have to move out of my apartment. The apartment I adore, in the neighborhood I cherish. I sigh with longing for what we shared (last year’s Cinco de Mayo party, the central air that I’ll never know again, the bedroom I can actually walk around in, the window inviting light onto the dresser…). And like all breakups, one party is bearing the brunt of mourning. This time, it’s me. My apartment, or should I say, my soon-to-be-ex apartment, seems just fine with it. It has legions of girls (and boys, as my apartment is free-wheeling and bi-habitat) just like me but a little bit better clamoring for its attention, lines even, girls who are willing to bend more, pay more, but as I suspect, appreciate less.
I can’t make the apartment want me as much as I want it, particularly when its standards have risen far beyond the bonds of my bank account. Not when there is this much competition. The August search for Manhattan housing is one of the most heartbreaking acts I think I will ever participate in. I’ve done it twice and am gearing up for a third. I am worse for the wear.
Last night I began, shoving thoughts out of mind of how no other neighborhood will suit me, how no other water pressure will bead as hard. I talked myself into a stretch of Canal Street littered with trash and wire-locked I heart NY tee-shirt shops. Up the stairs to a surly man and his slight girlfriend who immediately insisted I take off my shoes, that though he knew I could not move in until August and still asked me to come by to look, sternly barked that it was not flexible and that was that. And the room was small and cramped and unwelcoming and it was $1200 to share a little bathroom with three other people and most likely, a type-written list of house rules (no guests, no laughing, no breathing).
Sometimes, change is not good. I wish the semester of my apartment didn’t have to end. I don’t want to graduate.
Any ideas or leads?
6 comments:
I feel for you, especially now that it's your 3rd time finding an apartment in Manhattan. It's so unreasonable. Good luck!
You reminded me of the frustrations I felt when I was looking for an apartment...it does require a lot of patience, but am sure you'll find your next perfect place :)
When my lease was up for renewal in my tiny Avenue C studio that i shared with my boyfriend, I couldn't handle the thought of going through the process again, even with a partner. I left him, the apartment, and NYC for a much kinder rental market and better quality of life in Chicago. What a horrendous process finding a place in Manhattan is! Although, it is the best city in the world and I'm sure you'll find a space soon enough that will make you happy and will hopefully fit your furniture.
i'm so sorry! god it's such an enormous pain in the tush. you will find something though-you only need one.
I have moved a total of nine times since living in the city. (just thinking that out was painful) I have moved other people a total of ten times. (they always seem to disappear when its my turn, bastards). I know how much this process sucks, and my heart goes out to you. I'm actually moving for a tenth time at the end of this month, although I'm heading to a brownstone in Bed-Stuy where I hope I will live longer then my previous spots.
Here's hoping you know several strong boys who are willing to help you out. (You've always got a team of grips on my end if you need)
Dig it.
BT
Having done it twice myself, I have to agree - it's the most painful process I've yet to endure. I truly lucked out the first time around; on the next go-round, I was so stubbornly committed to find a great place in the WV, and spent countless hours sneaking into buildings so I could bypass brokers and get in touch with the management company. Long story short: I live on the UWS, ended using a (cheap) broker, but love almost everything about it. Focus on the 2 or 3 most important things in a place and you'll be fine. I was just surprised that, for me, the exact neighborhood wasn't one of them.
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