I was born here.
In Brooklyn, New York. And I still live here.
That’s not to say I haven’t moved a lot.
Upon my return to Brooklyn in 2000 during my third year of college, I moved to Park Slope. I lived on St. Johns Pl and Fifth Ave, with three roommates and a window overlooking an air shaft.
Then in 2002, I moved to Ninth Street and Sixth Avenue, where my best friend and I set up house on the parlor floor of a brownstone. I chose the tiny bedroom because it had huge sliding doors that opened up onto a yard I dreamed of populating with perennials.
In 2003, the ancient landlord died, and her children wanted to sell the house, so we moved to St. Johns Pl and Eighth Ave, into a tiny apartment with many tiny rooms, including an “office” that we painted the colors of lime and orange sherbet.
In 2004, after my roommate moved to live with her boyfriend, that landlord wanted to sell the building, so I moved to a tiny studio on Seventh Ave and Lincoln Pl. It was my first “alone” apartment. That didn’t last for reasons I won’t go into.
In 2005, I moved to Eleventh Street and Fourth Avenue, into a roomy one bedroom with a landlord who always needed me to fix her TV antenna. Just my luck, one day she decided she wanted to sell the house, so I put my furniture in storage and split time between my parents’ and my then-girlfriend’s places.
In 2008, I moved to Eighteenth Street and Sixth Avenue. It was a two bedroom condo with two bathrooms, laundry, a parking spot (I had finally learned how to drive), and a landlord who lived in South Carolina. I swore to myself I would never move again.
I haven’t. In fact, my girlfriend is moving in at the end of June. At first she was against it – the lack of light just didn’t work for her. But I put up new, lighter curtains, and that seemed to do the trick.
Wish us luck! I don’t plan on moving anytime soon. And as far as I know, the landlord doesn’t plan on selling the place.