Siddity in the City

I’d expected my apartment search here to be akin to that in New York: shady landlords, dodgy rental agents, barely affordable rents for practically unlivable closets in undesirable neighborhoods. I started casing the online listings in December, planning for a March 1 move. I tightened the purse strings (sort of), anticipating an application process that would involve months of bank statements, proof of annual income at least 40 times monthly rent, references, cosigners, and employment verification. I sweated over that last, because I’ve been at my current position well under the two years. I assumed I was in for a struggle, one I could photograph and blog and lament for a good six weeks once my search began.

Instead, I viewed two apartments in one weekend before making a decision. The first, a rehabbed two-room studio owned by a charmingly earnest giant of a man, was renting for just over $600 per month, all utilities included. Two blocks to the train, three blocks to a good grocery store, two blocks to the express bus downtown, two blocks to the beach. I applied on the spot. The second was a studio one neighborhood over in a building owned by a married couple, named for their child, and populated, as was obvious when I met the building manager for the viewing, by people at least five years younger than me and far more likely to be sowing a bit of home grown on the precious deck space the apartments boasted as their most fetching feature. It was also half as large as the first, featured a shower stall only rather than a bath, overlooked the rear of a 4 am bar and, when the tenant-paid utilities were included in the cost, would have been a good $125 per month more expensive. It was also two blocks from the nearest bus route, a mile from the nearest grocery store, and many, many blocks away from the El.

Imagine my joy when I returned from that viewing to find the owner of building #1 had emailed me a friendly message approving my application and asking when I’d like to come sign the lease.

*****

There is something I find uniquely satisfying about having a space that is completely my own. After years of folding myself into others’ spaces, even those I enjoyed and knew I was fortunate to have, I am suddenly alone and in control, solely responsible for my comfort within these four walls.

I’m sure at some point I’ll grow weary of coming home to an empty apartment, of my underpants wadded in a corner just where I left them, of silence, but for now, it’s all perfection.