Forty-six years ago today, Jack and I moved into our current apartment. It was our third move in New York, and our first where we hired professional movers -- after all, we were 28, time to start acting like grownups. Of course, that was the day the city decided to do some repairs on the pavement of our block; I think the movers were able to park in front of our corner building on 85th Street and Columbus, but then had to back out.
We were nervous about entrusting our sacred stereo
system to unknown movers, so we took the turntable to the new apartment
ourselves a couple of days earlier -- and were shocked to find it
missing when we arrived on moving day. Complaints to the super were
fruitless. Clearly, someone in the building had stolen it. He was also
supposed to give us our copy of the lease, which he never did. (Which
turned out to be moot when the building went co-op 12 years later, but I
was nervous about it for years before the co-op process.) I learned
only recently that super was hated by everyone in the building as
incompetent, and he was gone a few years after we moved in.
Our new apartment felt so spacious compared to the one we were leaving. There were two, 2(!) bedrooms, each one big enough for a bed and more than one bureau. There was a long, long hallway, perfect for lining with the bookcases I hadn't bought yet. The kitchen had full-size appliances and was big enough for a real table -- our previous apartment's kitchen was as wide as the narrow stove at one end, the sink's drainboard was a piece of wood nailed to the wall, and there was no, zero, zilch counter space. Wheee!
Now that we have been here for quite a while, and redone the kitchen, I can see more places for improvement, like a second bathroom, which was more necessary when there were two of us here, and getting elderly. But I love the view out of the front door of the building: Riverside Park to the left, the Cathedral of St. John the Divine two blocks away to the right. Moving is such an ordeal, and I don't intend to do it ever again.