For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been packing up the apartment I’ve lived in since March, 2012, the place I moved into after my last relationship ended, the place I found when I was looking for a home for my writing and my workshops. Tomorrow I’m moving out.
I walked into this apartment less than a week before I had to leave for a two-week long writing retreat. I told myself I had to find a place to live before I left for the retreat, because as soon as I returned from the retreat, I was going to have to move out of the place I shared with my ex. This apartment was the second one I visited — the first was in a huge apartment complex up in the Adams Point area back behind the Whole Foods in Oakland, a smoky and dank building, and the only impression I still have of the unit I walked into (and quickly walked out of ) is grey. And no. I knew exactly where I wanted to live — someplace on the west side of the Lake Merritt, in between Lake Merritt and downtown Oakland, within walking distance of BART. Then I found the craigslist ad for this dog-friendly one-bedroom in a 1920s building just a block from Lake Merritt, and a ten-minute walk from three different BART stations. I replied to the ad immediately, and the landlord wrote back, with details about the apartment, no pictures, and an application he encouraged me to complete ASAP so that they could run my credit. I thought, That’s ridiculous. Why would I apply for an apartment I’ve never seen? And send all of my personal information off to someone I’ve never met. This could be a total scam, someone harvesting personal data for internet fraud. And then I completed and sent in the application. I had a feeling. (But first, I called the landlord, wanting to make sure there was at least a real person on the other side of that email address.)
I knew the moment I walked into the apartment, still cluttered with the previous tenants’ belongings, that I’d take it — a spacious corner unit with lots of good morning light, a living room area that would be big enough to hold a circle of writers, and then, to my astonishment, a second little room (too small to call a second bedroom) that would be my office. My office. My own writing room. Yes, I said. Yes, I’ll take it. I gave him the deposit immediately, signed the lease on the front steps of the building, and then had to hurry into town because my ex was throwing me a big 40th birthday party at the CSC, and I was late. Three days later, I had the keys to my new apartment, and I went in to visit and sort of claim the now-empty apartment, taking pictures and showing it off to my new friend Ellen (who was about to become quite a bit more than a friend, though I don’t know that either of us knew just how much more). I left something small — a shell or a note or a pen or something to introduce myself and my energy into the space, to say, hello, this is me, I’ll be back soon.