Soft Land

I was 30 years old when I first felt like I was coming home. I had been living in New York for almost a year, and was vacationing in the Caribbean with a boyfriend over the wintry New Year’s week. I was on the airplane returning to the city, tanned and tipsy from the two small bottles of Kahlua now stashed in the seat pocket in front of me, when I looked outside the window and sighed.

I felt sheer joy to be coming home to the city that I had been having a love affair with for the better part of my life. It was a sultry affair; a hot summer romance that I returned to each year. I needed it like one needs oxygen. My summer tryst fueled me through the ten arduous months I endured in Indiana. Each year from the age of 14, my mother thought she was sending me to summer camp in upstate New York, when actually summer camp was just a means to a New York City end. It was a tryst filled with mystery and adventure, and it fed something in me that I craved at my core. But at the end of each summer, at the first sign of the changing season, I would leave this city. I’d get on a plane and my heart would sink. I had to return home to a place that didn’t feel like home.

My rendezvous with New York continued in that way for years. When I was too old to be a camper, I returned as a camp counselor. When I outgrew camp altogether (at the age of 23!) I would come to the city to visit the friends I had made during those warm months. As I got older, my career as a journalist moved me first to Montana and then Virginia. Still, I knew that my life was to be in New York and felt stronger about making a home here than any career path I was on.

So I took a leap of faith and finally committed to this city on paper; I signed a lease for an apartment and was the proud renter of a 300 square foot, 1,700-dollar-a-month apartment. All I can say about those embarrassing numbers is that I didn’t know any better. And I was desperate. I came to New York with a king-size bed and a 75-pound golden retriever named Murphy; my Midwestern naiveté about Manhattan real estate was comical at best, a disaster at worst.

My dog refused to use the pavement as a bathroom. She demanded something soft under her paws, thus making close proximity to Central Park a must-have. Who could blame her? For five years she had squatted on terrific terrain; some of the most sensational soil in the country, really. She was only three months old when I got her in Montana. It was Big Sky country with even bigger bathroom potential. She quickly became accustomed to the vast expanses of the land - Yellowstone Park; Glacier National Forest; the Gallatin Canyon. Murphy was doing business on God’s country.

Suffice it to say, the cement jungle of NYC was tough on her. In the morning, after putting her leash on, she would literally pull me to the park. We raced by city canines happily relieving themselves on the NYC sidewalks, as my poor pup could barely hold it in. She was like a bat out of hell, crazed to be outdoors but unable to find a patch of grass. She would beeline to the West 72nd street entrance of the park and then – joy of all joys – a patch of grass. And just like that, my mild-mannered Murphy reappeared.

The king-size bed went into storage, because 1,700-dollars on Central Park West does not rent one a room that fits a king-size bed. I sold the beast to an Irishman in the West Village who I ended up dating, so it was a win-win as I ultimately didn’t have to say goodbye to the bed until I said goodbye to the relationship. So I happily lingered on my mattress until I was ready to fully embrace my sofa bed.

At night, I would unfold the mattress in the couch and Murphy would hop in. This lasted for about six months. The lack of space had initially been amusing, but by the six month point had become ludicrous. I had terrible guilt over leaving my large dog in such a small space each morning when I went to work. My mother, who lives outside of Cleveland, has plenty of space and generously offered to take Murphy until I settled in. I cried the day my mom drove off with her; Murphy had been my dog for five years and now she was gone.

The silver lining in her loss was that the real estate market opened up to me. I no longer had to find a pet-friendly, elevator building right off the park, so my search widened exponentially. I got an immense amount of pleasure from perusing the classifieds. I saw several apartments; most of them bad, a few were utter abominations. One, in particular, stands out: For $1,950, a small one-bedroom apartment with shower in kitchen and (shared) toilet down hallway. There wasn’t a bathroom sink in the apartment. One brushed one’s teeth in the kitchen sink. It was off Great Jones Street, in the Village; this, for a mere $1,950 a month.

Although desperate for even the tiniest bit more space, this time I knew better. This time, things would be different. This time, I would find a beautiful apartment big enough for a bed and a couch. This time, I would find a place that finally felt like home….