My super told me that she found what remained of the electric oven/toaster in the courtyard but the tenant refused to admit he had thrown it out the window. All I could think was how awful it would be to go out with friends and come back three to four hours later and your life is upside down. To this day I will not buy a toaster oven…
The young couple who sublet me the tiny, dark apartment cautioned me, “Don’t draw attention to yourself. The landlord can’t know that we left!” The wife even left her furniture in the place, and so I discreetly moved in my own stuff in small bags and suitcases, making many trips. And then…
The walls were as thin as the saltines on which I spread Potted Meat Food Product for dinner. I was privy to every sound of one neighbor’s bed squeaking and creaking in response to his nocturnal movements. His incoherent mumblings almost made sense to me some nights. Another neighbor was an opera singer. He was a horrible opera singer.
The mice, oh, those mice. They were true New Yorkers with a dry sense of humor, showing up at the most inopportune times. I lost more girlfriends that way.
While some of the 2013 mayoral candidates’ names may already be fading into history, these New Yorkers’ first apartment memories fit right in with the other stories found on this site, including the shock of seeing what their places look like today.
My first apartment was so small I had to step outside to change my mind. The year was 1968. The apartment was on Sullivan Street, just above Little Italy, with a live poultry market around the corner.
My first NYC apartment was on Steinway Street—party central of Astoria, Queens. I have very fond memories of my bachelor days there, but there are a lot of strange memories, too.
These were my wild NYU days and I had lots of romantic encounters. My interactions with men in my building, however, were not always so romantic.
I moved to NYC in 1987, and found my first apartment through an ad in The Village Voice—a third floor walk-up, 2 bedroom on the corner of Bleecker & Sullivan, in the heart of the Village. (I had to be told what the “village” was; I was from Michigan for god’s sake.)