We handed over the keys to our apartment on Tuesday morning, leaving our beloved place behind for someone else to fill with memories. It was a bittersweet farewell, but since I had two freelance gigs running at the same time and a fever, I didn’t have too much time to think about it.
(Cafe Abraco on 1st Ave and E 7th S. It can’t guarantee that it’s the best coffee in New York, but it’s damned good coffee.)
Our ride to New York cancelled on us at the last minute, so we hopped on the train. To be honest, it was a bit of a relief as it meant I could keep working during the ride. And with a panorama view of the East Coast in fall, it was inspired work indeed.
Once we arrived in New York — a few hours late but in good spirits — we met the guy who’s renting us a room, a screenwriter named Mark. He’s lived in the same apartment on the Lower East Side for fifteen years, and it shows. Everything is comfortably worn in and he is impressively laid back about us crashing. And if that wasn’t enough, the neighborhood is gorgeous and filled with artists and families. It makes me feel like a new person. I could write a novel from here (but I’ll settle for finishing my second writing gig, due Friday).
So far, we’ve experienced New York as locals rather than tourists. We’ve wandered around, tried new cafes, worked, and met people we already know for drinks. Living in someone’s apartment makes me feel at home, and not having anywhere else to call my own adds that comfortable gypsy feel to my existence. It is definitely my kind of vacation.