I would like to take this moment to say goodbye to an inanimate object. Yes, Apartment in Park Slope, this is our last night together. Tomorrow we are moving a few blocks away to a place that will better suit our needs, and you will provide a glorious home to another couple that needs your good vibes desperately.
When I came to you, I was totally inconsolable. I hadn’t eaten in two weeks because of my paralyzing anxiety. I had seen you in the New York Times Real Estate Listings, and picked you because you were at least three miles from downtown Manhattan. The first night I spent under your roof I felt better, like a morphine drip to a patient in pain. You will forever represent recovery to me.
Curiously, as great as you are, not many of my friends ever got inside you. I suppose it was one of those “nesting” periods when I asked my girlfriend to marry me, and then we were engaged, then betrothed. The last place I lived, like any other East Village bachelor pad, was something of a lure. You, however, got me well past that insanity.
You, your stoop, and your neighborhood is what I thought new York was when I was a kid. Sesame Street pretended it was Manhattan – or Harlem, or something – but the minute I walked down Lincoln, I knew it was really about you and yours.
We won’t be far; in fact, we’ll try to walk by you a lot. Maybe your new tenants can get your toilet to work. Perhaps also they’ll have better luck getting their wireless internet to go through the walls. Oh, and your floors weren’t quite thick enough to drown out the guy snoring upstairs (although he must qualify for a some medals in that category).
You were built in 1888, and I once heard a story about a Peruvian family of six living in Tessa’s office area. We are but a tiny slice – three years – of the hundreds of tenants who have broken bread here since the Gilded Age. Thanks for obliging us with your silent largesse.
Tessa, Chopes, our street, summer ’04