I began making three piles. Store it, Sell it, Give it away.
It was time to figure out how to get to New York.
I’ve never been the type to make a naturally evolved or what they call a “logical” kind of decision. Make the call, then fill in the blanks. That’s always been my motto. Luckily, this time it happened to work.
The start date was early December. It was November.
I had four weeks to figure it out.
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My boyfriend and I had a very frank discussion. At that point we had been dating for six months. Before me he dated a girl who lived (and still lives) in New York. She rented one of those F@*% off high rises in the Financial District downtown. They did the long distance thing for some time and while it was glamorous for them, we weren’t sure if it was right for us.
After mulling the “what ifs” a few times over we concluded that we should trust the simple fact that we wanted to be together. Period. Wherever that happened to be.
We booked another long weekend in New York. When we were supposed to come out Hurricane Sandy was on its way. I had dreams about cyclones and pop-up radio stations located in bunkers made of mud. We bumped the flight back two weeks.
When we finally got there the city was still reeling and our goals were somewhat ambitious: “find a place for Nicole to live in Brooklyn or Manhattan.”
The Financial District was ruled out.
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A year prior to writing this, I floated in a pool in the desert at night.
California winters can be chilly – even in Desert Hot Springs. (or “DHS” as affectionately dubbed by a Hollywood writer friend.)
The cool wind battered the palms high above, fanning a faint U-shape around the oval contour of the deep end of the pool. Alone, I treaded water and encouraged the hardened edges of my mind to quietly soften.
I wanted to soak in some sanity as my skin methodically took in the mineral water piped in from the nearby mountains. The water was so hot that it had to go through a machine to cool off before entering the pool.
Mind racing, I summoned advice from well-meaning girlfriends and delicious fortune cookies.
“Sometimes it’s better to stop trying to swim upstream.”
“Be best you can be.”
Gazing upwards towards the sharp, twinkling stars, I struggled to let the moment percolate. The universe would determine the upcoming week, month, and year – not me.
It was late January, and despite coming fresh from the holidays I felt drained. Drained beyond the usual messiness that requires loud pronouncements and subsequent retroactive denial.
Still, the mind kept racing and my body wanted to match it. I wanted to throw on sneakers and sprint down the street, hair soaking and slicked back under the harsh streetlights as I ran towards whatever the hell I was supposed to be. I wanted to tackle it to the ground and look it squarely in the eye.
The grown up version of myself knew that I couldn’t rely on anyone or anything to get there. The child within wanted to be everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I blinked water from my eyes. It was in that moment, floating in the pool while trying to keep my nerves from twitching, I shook something loose from inside my chest and held it close. It was a random moment that would eventually resurface to provide some greater truth later down the line.
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“Moving,” I pronounced to anyone who’d listen, “Is like ripping off a band-aid. You just go through a list and remove everything as quickly as possible.” This, of course, was a bold-faced lie.
Moving requires organization along with a somewhat insane type of motivational skill set. In my case, it also forces one to get rid of as many things as quickly as humanly possible.
It should be a game show, the reverse of Supermarket Sweep. Get it all out of the cart!
Even if a move is highly organized (mommy bloggers come to mind) more things continually manifest, replacing the aforementioned things already accounted for. Objects appear that you didn’t even know you had – “oh look, an iron!” – and somehow it all needs to go anywhere but there.
Oftentimes a reductionist lifestyle, as altruistic as it seems, is practiced more due to limited real estate than anything else.
Thankfully I was moving from a small place and had previously attempted a “one in, one out” policy. This was likely picked up from Apartment Therapy or Zen Habits, blogs that make us feel better about living in a tiny place through savvy DIY tips and splashy features about “organizing.”
There’s a word people always use after they pull it off. “It’s so … cathartic!”
My theory on what this really means is either:
a.) They ran out of time and needed to get rid of everything asap (reverse Supermarket Sweep),
or
b.) They came to grips with the fact that one simply does not need so much shit.
As for me, I sold a lot of things to friends and family. I posted furniture to Craigslist. Countless bags and boxes went to Goodwill. Random objects of dubious provenance – like the half-assed table I found that time – went to the back alley for official bequeathment.
All along I wondered what my parents would think. Was I being wasteful? I spent years creating a place where I’d be happy and have everything I’d need. And now I just wanted to wave my hands and magically see it all gone.
I worked hard to have meaningless things that would eventually be given away.
It was all done in a week.
I was freaked out the entire time.
Afterwards, I never looked back.
When it came to the essentials, it basically boiled down to the old college maneuver of throwing things into brown boxes, taping them up, and crossing my fingers that the boxes wouldn’t get lost en route.
The things that remained in my apartment were sparse. In all, I flew to New York with three bags and shipped several boxes. A suitcase, overnight bag, and handbag carried items like my journals, jewelry, laptop, and passport.
At the end of the day, the hardest part wasn’t parting with “stuff.”
It was simply meeting the deadline.
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The first apartment we saw was by far the worst.
Maybe that’s why I waited so long to move to New York. Unless being one of the fortunate few, there are typically scant resources to work with when moving early on in ones career.
I can see it now – sharing an apartment with strangers, using curtains as ad-hoc walls while apathetically squirting rodents with a water gun from the disputable comfort of a communal couch.
No thanks.
Even now, the options are slim.
Rent in Manhattan is crazy expensive (which I believe is the city-wide technical term). Even Brooklyn is getting there.
They don’t tell you about the brokers fee. It’s always a brokers market in the Big Apple. Thus, they can essentially do ridiculous things like charge 15% of the annual rent upfront.
There’s also the potential dwelling itself to itemize. Don’t live above a bar. Make sure the building is bedbug-free. Does the bedroom face the back of the building? Wait, are they selling drugs downstairs?!
Trips to New York always made me tired. There was so much to take in. I’d have to learn to exchange my own energy for the energy of the city. In LA that energy can be forced. The city would always accept it and smile back at you. It might be ironic or fake, but smile it would.
LA and New York are similar in many ways, and residents of both might be reluctant to admit this. For one, people love talking about two things – the weather and transportation. They also love sharing news about neighborhoods, particularly their own. Pets are also huge. People LOVE to discuss the issues their cat and/or dog and/or small child is currently experiencing. These would prove to be great go-to conversation topics later on, a meager reserve in the shallow starter bag of elevator small talk.
During the apartment hunt I also came to notice that both cities have similar styles in terms of respective neighborhood-y stereotypes. In the bourgie areas: yoga studios, gourmet markets, and “rustic-chic” places for brunch. In the hipster neighborhoods: ads for craft whiskey, “vintage” stores, and rows of PBR and cat food lining the bodega walls.
The place I quickly decided on was a sublet from a friend who, incidentally enough, was moving to LA. It was agreed that I would take the remainder of her lease for the following six month period. No brokers fees. No anxiety. It was a sign. It was done.
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There was one frivolous thing I decided to take with me – a small framed picture of substantial meaning yet little known origin.
The frame consisted of tiny purple and silver sparkly rhinestones designed in a sort of royal, ornate pattern, from a fancy version of Pottery Barn or one of those stores in an indoor shopping mall intended to make what my mom calls “nesting” exciting.
The picture inside is a sketch of a birdcage. There is no bird – just the cage. The cage is made of barbed wire. I have no idea where the picture came from. I’ve had it for a long time and everytime I look at it it was like a secret acknowledgement, a quick nod between myself and the photo that yes, I am allowed to feel many things, and one of those things was trapped.
Now the little framed picture has moved from a bungalow in Santa Monica to a walk-up in the East Village. Occasionally when the morning light hits it I glance over and smile.
That small image has more value than the majority of things I got rid of. It represents what I was able to overcome. It represents the surfacing piece of what I was eventually able to earn and provide for myself.
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On my last day in LA, I stood in my small pile of bags and boxes. Miscellany was scattered about, including my headphones which tellingly enough were the last item to be packed.
I looked up at the skylights, one of my favorite parts of that place. I didn’t bother stretching my neck to see if I could see the stars. Instead, I went outside without closing the door and walked the pathway I paced many times over in various states of emotion and strength.
My nerves were twitching again. This time, I didn’t feel the urge to run because I was well on my way. For the past five years this place was my home. I had created many memories here, and it was time to turn the page to create some more.