I’ve been in Portland eleven months now. While I miss London, both in terms of the city itself and the ridiculously gorgeous human beings I met, coming here was definitely a good move. It needed to happen, and it really has turned out swimmingly. My time here has been nothing if not illuminating. I’ve never spent so much time truly alone before, and finding that I don’t mind it, that, in fact, I quite enjoy it, was a welcome discovery.
That said, changes are afoot.
Tomorrow I’m going to give my thirty days’ notice; I’m moving. It’s not much of a move — just three blocks down, one block over — but I will be living with other people again. And you know, I’ll be sad to leave this apartment. It’s been good to me, even though most of the time, I haven’t been very good to it. This was my first real go at making a home just for myself — and it feels like that. Like home.
My fondness for this space, though, the slight twinge I feel at the thought of leaving this too-expensive apartment on this too-loud corner of this too-yuppie section of Portland — it is completely, absolutely, and oh-so-easily trumped by the prospect of getting another chance to live with one of my best friends. As for the opportunity to get to know a relatively new friend even better — well, that’s just icing on the cake.
OH, and the silver lining? (Yes, this situation comes with both icing and silver lining. Just GO with it.) I totally found the most awesome apartment on the face of the planet. And NOT ONLY did I totally find the most awesome apartment on the face of the planet, I used my scintillating feminine wiles (read: polite, businesslike manner) to cast a spell on our soon-to-be-landlord, who was so blown away that he offered me the place DURING OUR FIRST PHONE CALL. Truly, I am made of magic.
I made a fantabulous (oh MAN, I really am all over the place tonight. ‘fantabulous‘??) online gallery of the 40 or so pictures I took when I actually went to check it out, just so my future roommates and I could gush over them at our leisure. The following are some choice selections to illustrate the conversational gems that occurred as said gushing took place:
The mysterious little structure that borders the backyard.
“I’m telling you. That’s where the hunchback lives.”
“Yeah. Probably. I really like the Virgin Mary by the window.”
The fenced-in basement ’storage area.’
“And this is where we can stage the cock-fights.”
“If by ‘cock-fight’ you mean ‘make David sleep here,’ then yes. Definitely.”
The heinous shower stall that will be replaced before we move in.
“Thank God they’re replacing that. It’s fucking hideous.”
“You’re insane. It’s aMAzing. It’s so seventies — it looks like
the kind of shower Mariel Hemingway would use.”
When all is said and done, there are aspects of living alone that I’m going to miss. For example, the ability to not turn on the heat. Ever. Because I am an alien, and like to keep my windows open even in the dead of winter. And also? Peeing with the bathroom door open. I’m going to miss that. (Don’t judge me. You know you do it, too.)
Still, those things shouldn’t be too hard to get over. Not when I’m gonna get to live with people who say things like “You know, I’m not sure. I actually haven’t done a lot of research into the chihuahua,” and “I sort of secretly enjoy throwing away pastel post-its and rewriting the memo on a neon one. There is an art to a good post-it.”
It’s gonna be AWEsome.
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