I've moved a lot, including a brief stint of homelessness as a young child. As an infant we lived with my grandmother for a short time, then moved to an apartment, which is the first home I can remember. The apartment was so small that I had to sleep in the closet with my sister. It had a patio made of grey stones, and my first memory is of sitting on that patio, and cutting my finger on the stones.
After that we moved to a small white house in South Seattle with a plum tree in the front yard; my sister broker her arm jumping out of it onto her bicycle, like the Lone Ranger onto his horse. After that a house with a stunning '70's decor of false brick and burnt umber shag carpeting, and, my favorite, a little blue house by the beach in West Seattle. Then I lived for a month in Cairo, for school.
My first year in NYC was the only year I lived in a dorm, NYU's dorms being notoriously overpriced. I lived in the East Village, near the university, and paid too much. Then I moved to Washington Heights, at the time a very bad neighborhood, especially for a white girl. The apartment was slummy, infested with mice and roaches. I recall walking up the 5 flights of stairs one night a few steps behind a fat rat, thinking, "Please, don't stop on my floor!" There were drug dealers across the hall, and once I missed class because I was to afraid too leave the apartment: I heard a commotion, and went to spy through the peephole as I often did, to see what sort of illicit activities were happening in the hallway. I nearly had a heart attack as someone pounded on the door right as I leaned against it. I peered through, barely taking a breath, and saw two men, both with handguns drawn, one pounding again on my door. I locked the chain with a shaking hand and waited for them to leave. A few days later I came home to find the neighbor's door on the sidewalk in front of the building, dented by a police battering ram. We had no heat or hot water most of the winter in that place, but I have fond memories nevertheless. I lost my virginity there, on the sofa on a steamy August afternoon, the sun and a Spanish love song pouring in through the window, the sequens on the pink curtains reflecting little rainbows around the room as the wind fluttered them.
I moved from there to a basement in Corona, Queens, where I stayed for only three months, and from there to the Tiniest Apartment In the World: another East Village room, 6 and a half feet by eleven, with an airliner sink and a shared bathroom for the floor, which I shared with an obese vegan Rent-obsessed fag-hag. Good Times. I lived for a month in Mexico for a study abroad.
Then I moved to Brooklyn, a giant loft in Williamsburg with a horrible 9 foot by 4 foot skylight that woke me too early in the mornings, then Greenpoint, a nice apartment but a bitch for a roommate whom I could barely tolerate for the year I was there. Back to Williamsburg, to a flat that had a lovely view from the roof, but too many roaches for my tastes, and finally, to my home now -- a beautiful apartment in Bushwick, with wonderful roommates. I'm pretty happy here.
I think that makes 14 homes, in 27 years of living.
I don't know If I could stay in one place for very long -- I've never tried. I love the city, and I imagine living in other cities sometimes, London would be nice, but I'd become a total slut if I were surrounded by so many sexy British accents. I sometimes long for the sea, but not the sea here. The Atlantic Ocean is old like a wheezy old man, grey with a fug of pipe smoke. The Pacific, on the other hand, is old like a primeval beast, violent and passionate and powerful. I love NYC but I miss the ocean in Seattle.
After that we moved to a small white house in South Seattle with a plum tree in the front yard; my sister broker her arm jumping out of it onto her bicycle, like the Lone Ranger onto his horse. After that a house with a stunning '70's decor of false brick and burnt umber shag carpeting, and, my favorite, a little blue house by the beach in West Seattle. Then I lived for a month in Cairo, for school.
My first year in NYC was the only year I lived in a dorm, NYU's dorms being notoriously overpriced. I lived in the East Village, near the university, and paid too much. Then I moved to Washington Heights, at the time a very bad neighborhood, especially for a white girl. The apartment was slummy, infested with mice and roaches. I recall walking up the 5 flights of stairs one night a few steps behind a fat rat, thinking, "Please, don't stop on my floor!" There were drug dealers across the hall, and once I missed class because I was to afraid too leave the apartment: I heard a commotion, and went to spy through the peephole as I often did, to see what sort of illicit activities were happening in the hallway. I nearly had a heart attack as someone pounded on the door right as I leaned against it. I peered through, barely taking a breath, and saw two men, both with handguns drawn, one pounding again on my door. I locked the chain with a shaking hand and waited for them to leave. A few days later I came home to find the neighbor's door on the sidewalk in front of the building, dented by a police battering ram. We had no heat or hot water most of the winter in that place, but I have fond memories nevertheless. I lost my virginity there, on the sofa on a steamy August afternoon, the sun and a Spanish love song pouring in through the window, the sequens on the pink curtains reflecting little rainbows around the room as the wind fluttered them.
I moved from there to a basement in Corona, Queens, where I stayed for only three months, and from there to the Tiniest Apartment In the World: another East Village room, 6 and a half feet by eleven, with an airliner sink and a shared bathroom for the floor, which I shared with an obese vegan Rent-obsessed fag-hag. Good Times. I lived for a month in Mexico for a study abroad.
Then I moved to Brooklyn, a giant loft in Williamsburg with a horrible 9 foot by 4 foot skylight that woke me too early in the mornings, then Greenpoint, a nice apartment but a bitch for a roommate whom I could barely tolerate for the year I was there. Back to Williamsburg, to a flat that had a lovely view from the roof, but too many roaches for my tastes, and finally, to my home now -- a beautiful apartment in Bushwick, with wonderful roommates. I'm pretty happy here.
I think that makes 14 homes, in 27 years of living.
I don't know If I could stay in one place for very long -- I've never tried. I love the city, and I imagine living in other cities sometimes, London would be nice, but I'd become a total slut if I were surrounded by so many sexy British accents. I sometimes long for the sea, but not the sea here. The Atlantic Ocean is old like a wheezy old man, grey with a fug of pipe smoke. The Pacific, on the other hand, is old like a primeval beast, violent and passionate and powerful. I love NYC but I miss the ocean in Seattle.
