Places I’ve lived, part 5

Just two weeks before Conde Nast bounced me from Lucky, I closed on a nice-sized two-bedroom apartment in a highly coveted Bing & Bing building, on 12th Street, not far from the playground at the end of Bleecker. The building faced south towards the towers of the financial district, and was right across the street from Abingdon Square Park, a wee-but-charming triangular patch of benches and greenery that bloomed gloriously in the spring. It was a very nearly ideal setup, and also one that I could suddenly no longer afford, at least not for long.

I had found the place after a protracted search, during which I had been astonished—even though I knew better—at how very little you get for your money in New York City, and especially in a neighborhood as desirable as the West Village. I saw apartments where all the windows looked out on the wall of the building next door; cramped places where the closets were few and tiny, still others that had strange, lingering smells in the hallway—all for the absolute maximum of what I wanted to spend, which wasn’t nothing.

The apartment I ended up choosing was far from perfect, it must be said: it was on the second floor (which I honestly ended up not minding, and in fact sort of liking), and was two apartments combined—a one-bedroom and a studio. Like many combined apartments, the shape was slightly wonky. Sort of rectangular, with bedrooms at each end. It definitely needed work—the family that I bought the place from had been there for decades—and I had big plans for it. After I got fired, though, those plans were scaled way back to just the essentials: new tile work in the bathrooms, removal of the weird flagstone flooring in the dining area off the kitchen, a fresh coat of paint. After the work was done, I moved in.