Fast forward a few months and here I am, in the midst of a blazing New York summer. I was definitely warned about the heat and humidity, but this has been pretty unreal. Yesterday was 103 degrees with 40 percent humidity, making it feel like a whopping 115 degrees. I’ve experience my fair share of Montana summers, but the humidity is unlike anything I (or my hair) have experienced. Standing on the subway platform in the morning, people are noticeably less energetic and talkative. They walk quietly along the platform, not with the typical stern New Yorker face that I have grown to recognize, but with a markedly defeated look, faces glistening. Once the train comes racing into the station, everyone shuffles into the cars, desperate for the blast of air conditioning. If, by some unfortunate bit of luck, you manage to climb into the “hot car” sans the beloved AC, you wait until the next station and race out onto the platform and into the next car before the doors close once again.
Apart from the heat, the city is still as wonderful as always. And my life is equally wonderful. In the past four months, my life has changed significantly—new job, new apartment, new girlfriend. I like to call it “the trifecta”. Life is good.
I opened my computer a few months ago and, looking through my dashboard “widgets,” found a post-it note I had written to myself in my early years at UCSB. “Don’t forget about New York.” I’ve loved this city ever since our first family vacation here years ago. I had always dreamed of coming back one day, hopefully living here, even if for a short time. But in order to make the fantasy a reality, I was prepared to wait years, decades even. And yet here I am—now. While I will always think of Montana and California as home, I immediately felt a connection with the city, as if it’s where I’ve always belonged.
April: My job emerged from my remarkable experience as an intern. I now have a full-time job, a salary, and my very own cubicle. I go to work everyday, iced soy chai in hand, excited for the opportunities and responsibilities sitting amongst the stacks of paper on my desk. While my intern friends are now gone, dispersed across the city and beyond, I seem to have made a smooth transition into my new position. Life is good.
June: It was time to say goodbye to the Webster, as well. While it provided excellent accommodations for an intern, it was really no place for me once I got a full-time job. The meal benefits disappeared once my work hours extended beyond the Webster’s dining hours. Most nights I found myself sitting amongst the polished blue leather booths of the Skylight Diner, eating my dinner in solitude. And while I love the Skylight and the waiters eventually gave up poking fun at my “table for one,” I craved something more—my own kitchen. And thus began my apartment search.
Desperate to really live the New York dream, I was determined to find an apartment on the Upper West Side—even if it meant living in a shoebox inside someone’s closet. The first apartment I went to see wasn’t far from that. After looking at listings online, I found an apartment on West 64th Street. When I set up an appointment to view the space, I was warned that it was “pretty small.” Yes. Yes it was. 150 square feet, to be exact. The unit was still inhabited, boasting a twin bed and…that was about it. The room was long and narrow, destroying any feeling of openness that may have been possible. At the end of the room was a kitchenette (see: sink, counter, hotplate) and a door to the bathroom. I’m not claustrophobic, but standing in tiny room with a view of a brick wall and suffocating, yellow lighting was probably the closest I’ve ever been. I politely smiled at the building manager and said I’d “think about it.” He assured me that I should think fast because it would surely be off the market by the end of the day—for $1500 per month. What a steal.
After weeks of scouring rental listings and battling an intense internal conflict, I finally made my peace with a scary idea—I was moving to Brooklyn. While I never intended to leave Manhattan, Brooklyn was a better option for pricing and would make for a shorter commute once my office relocated to its new Financial District space. And thus began my journey into unknown territory.
I looked through dozens of listings, making phone calls to the respective property managers, and meeting even more dead ends. My biggest issue was finding the time to view any of the spaces. Working in Harlem, the commute to Brooklyn takes at least an hour via subway—and no one really wanted to set up an appointment after 7:30pm. All but one. Browsing through padmapper.com (thank you, Ryan), I found a studio apartment in Clinton Hill and, after calling at the attached phone number, spoke to the agent who was showing the apartment from 5:30-7:30pm that same day. I rushed down to Brooklyn after work, only to find myself there at 7:35pm and the agent had already gone home. Over the phone, she instructed me to ask the current residents to show me around the unit—“4D.” “4E?” I asked. “No, 4D—as in David,” she replied. I smiled. That one line convinced me before I had even seen the unit. I used the buzzer, got the confirmation from the residents, and I headed inside.
The building is old, but pretty magnificent in its own way. Every inch of the floor is covered in black and white patterned mosaics, dirty and worn under years of foot traffic, but with a great feeling of history. I climbed the three flights of stairs and found myself knocking on a dark brown door with a handwritten “4D” placard. The residents answered and welcomed me—and the neighbor’s dog—inside. After the dog was returned to its owner, I had a chance to look around. The front door opened into a short hallway that led into the main room, with the bathroom on the left and a closet on the right. The space was bigger than most New York studios I had ever seen—and there was a second closet off of the main room. Along one half of the front wall is a kitchenette, with plenty of cabinet space though limited counters. One of the residents sat on an air mattress staring at me. Beginning to feel a bit awkward, I asked if they had any bug problems, got an answer (no—thank god), and excused myself. Once back on the street, I called my mother and then called the real estate agent. I asked her what my next step would have to be, how soon I could move in, and how much she needed up front. I set up an appointment to meet with her the following Wednesday and said goodnight. And there I was, standing on the corner of Washington and Fulton, a soon-to-be Brooklynite.
And now I’ll rewind a bit…
May: One of my closest intern friends and a fellow Webster resident was set to leave the city before the end of the internship. She was heading to India to finish planning her wedding that was only a month away—a feat she had previously orchestrated from New York. On her last night in the city, she arranged an evening of fun with friends and other Websterians. The plan was to hit a karaoke bar, something she had never experienced but wanted to try and something I had absolutely no desire to experience whatsoever. But, realizing it was my friend’s final night in New York, I agreed to go along with it. It turns out that was a great decision.
After getting stuck in the karaoke bar alone for thirty minutes (dear karaoke singer: this is not American Idol, please stop thinking you’re going to become famous by testing your vocal range and flailing your “Mariah arm”) waiting for the other delayed partygoers, I decided to wait outside. There I found half of the Websterians arguing with the bouncer—they were under 21 and didn’t realize the karaoke bar really was an actual bar. We decided to find another location to enjoy the evening and, after wandering for some time, settled on a random sports bar. We waited outside for the rest of the group to arrive, including the woman of honor and her friend who had accompanied her to dinner before the event. Everyone finally arrived and, walking inside, everyone was introduced to one another. I was introduced to my friend’s dining companion—“You two are both from California. You should talk.” And so we did.
Fast-forward a few weeks: meet my girlfriend, Erin. She’s kind, genuine, ambitious, beautiful, and remarkably intelligent. For the sake of privacy, I won’t post much more about her here, but I’d be happy to tell any of you about her if you’d like.
Life is good.
