When I first moved to New York, my friends and I shared a one-bedroom apartment with a pitbull named Penelope. It was very clearly her apartment and not ours. After a month of Penelope’s antics-–and having to feed her raw chicken three times a day-–we finally moved into our own apartment! It was far from perfect, but it really felt ours. Our bright little sitcom apartment. I could always count on coming home and laughing with my friends. Outside our door I spoke spanish with our neighbors, learned to use a laundromat, and bought groceries at a little store under the Williamsburg bridge. On the best days I walked to a pool the size of a lake and swam then headed home to throw little dinner parties.
So, while my current apartment far exceeds this little one in the categories of square-footage, amenities, convenience, and non-toxicity, I think the bright little apartment is worthy of a blog post.