A month ago I decided I wanted to transition this blog into an online magazine. The GAF team is still working very hard towards that goal, but in the meantime, I missed having a platform where I can write.
So I’m back and in a new city. Again. I just moved to NYC! It all happened very quickly and wasn’t planned at all. Essentially I got a remote job and Nick landed a contract for six months and we just took off.
While we were in the process of getting an apartment we hopped around AirBnB’s and hotels. When we reached out to our first host she messaged me back with an ominous warning of “It’s a fourth-floor walk up… can you handle that?”.
I took it as a challenge. Mostly because I forgot “walk up” is a fancy New York way of saying “a shit ton of stairs and no elevator even if you beg the gods halfway up”.
So I arrived with five bags of luggage, two backpacks and a look of determination on my face. The driver, Sean, who unknowingly was acting as a cheaper version of a moving company kindly asked if I wanted help with the bags. Poor man. Poor, poor, guy. It was awful.
Apparently, the apartment building had “high ceilings” so each floor had incredibly steep stairs with at least 30 to a bazillion steps. No exaggeration.
Sean looked like he wanted to run back to the safety of his car. The host probably wanted to close the door in my face.
Then we began the climb with 50-pound bags in the position of our choosing. Sean went for a “head-carrying” position similar to women balancing jugs of water, except with more cursing because he was from Queens.
I hoisted the bags on my hip and essentially dragged it sideways. The host made lots of noises as she watched me ruin her wood stairs.
When we made it to the top I thanked the NYC apartment gods that I wasn’t going to have to deal with those bags for at least two weeks. But alas, the gods had their own plan.
The host walked me through her apartment, she was a designer and it was decorated so meticulously I was afraid to touch anything. Sharp objects everywhere, vintage glassware, white bed linen, etc. Everything breakable or stainable.
“And if you drop even water on the couch it has to be professionally cleaned for $400.”
I audibly gulped and hugged my arms around myself to crush the clutz in me. Within the few minutes there I only managed to gather a few bruises on my shins from bumping into artsy furniture.
Later that night Nick sat down on the couch with a beer. I screamed like I had witnessed a murder.
He lept up and looked around himself as if maybe there was a dead animal he hadn’t seen while lounging around.
“No drinking on the couch. Don’t eat, breath or look at that couch. That couch is only an art installation from now on.”
We agreed and settled into the new place for our first week in the city. But then that fateful Friday, the rain came.
We had just finished dinner and I went to the bathroom. When I closed the door behind me I began to hear the rain. As if it was raining inside. I pulled at the door but it was jammed. I yanked and yanked at the door to no avail. The heavy trickling continued on the other side. It felt like I was in the bathroom at the Rainforest Cafe.
I yelled for Nick and when he released me I was greeted with an indoor shower. The roof was leaking profusely. We gathered all the pots and pans but it was no use. The place was soaked.
The water soaked into the walls and eventually a wall of mirrors, so artfully placed, came crashing down. I’m a superstitious person so I began to count the years of bad luck that surrounded our feet.
Our host came into the apartment to assess the damage. She looked at me with despair and all I could say was,”At least no water landed on the couch!”
We are now in a new location.