You never forget your first apartment. That first taste of freedom. The first place you could put things where YOU wanted without your mother putting them back where they belonged. I never got to live in my 'first apartment' -- the landlord absconded with all the rent money before we even got to move in. But the first apartment I lived in with my two friends was a 2-bedroom basement unit in a scuzzy building on a busy downtown Ottawa street. There were on occasion drunks sleeping one off on the sidewalk pressed up to our windows. Every now and then a curious dog walking by would stop and stick his head in a window to check out our digs. Our ceilings were covered with pipes so we painted them chocolate brown and turned them into art nouveau. We had beaded curtains in doorways and thrift store furniture. It was a fun, funky place and I had some of the best times EVER in that apartment.
Yesterday I took my daughter on her first apartment hunting expedition. We now have the benefit of the internet, digital photos, and Google Streetview. Back in the day, we circled sketchy ads in the local rag and walked through a lot of dumpy apartments (I'm talking boil your skin off when you leave dumpy) before choosing our own dumpy apartment (which we nicknamed The Black Hole of Calcutta. Our friends lived down the street in The Lean-To. Ah, good times.) But I digress.
We had three appointments lined up -- a 1-bedroom in a standard apartment building, a ground level suite in a private house, and a unit in a triplex. We started in the apartment building, replete with narrow hallways, dingy carpeting and the requisite scary elevator. The unit was nice, she could live there no problem, but it had no oomph, no pizzazz, no personality.
On to the private house. In a beautiful neighbourhood. Lots of trees. Lovely homes set back from the roads. Okay, so far, too good to be true. Then we meet the landlords who live in the house next door and they are...the nicest older couple you'd ever want to meet. Maybe on the planet. Their daughter and her family live in the house where the suite is located. The house is immaculate, the grass freshly mowed. Mr Landlord opens the door to the suite and it is -- Shangra-La. It's small and cozy and clean and bright and funky and so full of personality and potential it's in danger of exploding. My daughter's face is also in danger of exploding. She can't wipe the smile off it. She has found her first home away from home. I'm jealous. I want to live there. We call and cancel the triplex.
The only thing I'm sorry about (other than the fact that I wish I was 19 again) is that she didn't really get the full experience of apartment hunting. It was way too easy. I'm happy I got to scruff and scrape and live in a place with drunks and dogs and pipes and beads and thrift store furniture. And one day my kid will probably be telling people about her first apartment -- that it wasn't even big enough for a queen size bed and full size microwave -- and her eyes will glaze over with nostalgia.
Cuz that's what first apartments do.
No comments:
Post a Comment