first apartment

Failure is only the opportunity to begin again, this time more wisely. - unknown

A large attic apartment on Cobun avenue was my first apartment (as long as we don't count Pietro Street) and home for three semesters. It was beautiful, with slanted ceilings, hardwood floors, a clawfoot tub, and retro and antique furniture.

Love at First Sight, But Not Second

The apartment's decor spoiled me, but it also fooled me. I soon found out that the apartment didn't have enough electric wattage to power a blow dryer, had an ant problem, a broken stove, and bad plumbing. I loved it because I didn't know any better. I survived hot days on the third story with a rotating fan and many bags of ice.

The rent was unbelievably cheap, but my landlord was a complete sleazeball. The owner of the house was on his deathbed, and he had hired my landlord, Steve, to take care of the house and collect rent. But Steve was a trucker who was never available when the hot water tank broke, or when there was a gas leak, or when my kitchen pipes burst.

In addition to being a poor house manager, he was a bad person, making advances at the female tenants in the building and begging for sympathy from anyone who would look him in the eye. I went for months with a broken bathroom sink because getting it fixed meant talking to Steve.

Happy Endings

A year later, I ran into Ted, my downstairs neighbor who also lived in the house. He was still living in the house, but Steve had been fired--and sued. The house's owner's family found out that Steve had been pocketing all of the money from the renter's for years. He was in jail, accountable for thousands of dollars of past rent. I was beaming for days when I heard the news.

I remember that when I took these pictures, I wanted to keep the space messy so it would look authentic. Now that I'm posting them online, I wish I had cleaned up a bit. Keep in mind this was my first apartment, and it felt freeing to be messy for once.

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