Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

Two years ago tomorrow, I moved into a little studio apartment in Chelsea, on the western side of Manhattan.  In the interests of transparency, I must tell you I was both tipsy and rather desperate when I viewed the apartment for the first time.  I really needed to find a place to live and seeing the small studio filled with the previous tenant's belongings convinced me (even in my beer-addled state) that I had found my New York home.  I signed the lease, paid the security deposit, and a few weeks later when I finally took custody of the empty apartment, my sober self stared in utter disbelief at the blank slate before me.

Extremely crooked floors.  Low ceiling.  Greying tiles on the bathroom floor.  Noisy radiator.  Lunatic neighbours (though I would learn this much later).  When the movers brought in my furniture, they actually laughed.  What had I done?!

For a time though, I could overlook the apartment's flaws.  "Diamond in the rough" became an oft-uttered phrase around my house.

I painted a bright feature wall - selecting Tiffany Blue (of course), though I had to Google it for the guy in the paint department at Home Depot.  I bought a fantastic striped shower curtain from Kate Spade, some simple but beautiful DKNY curtains and a cheerful, coral-colored bedspread with lots of cushions of different sizes.  I went to Anthropologie and bought blue glass knobs to add pizzazz to my plain kitchen cupboard doors.  I put up some temporary wallpaper in a fantastic peacock print, and even had some house plants for a while (a short while, as is usually the case for me).  I bought artwork, which I never found the confidence ot hang.  I quickly acquired a sleek Nespresso machine in a gorgeous shade of green, which naturally clashed with my fire engine red microwave, but I didn't care.  I put together flatpack kitchen storage, and a cube bookcase (for a literature collection that only ever seemed to grow).  And if the four walls of that one-room studio seemed to close in on me, I just stepped outside into wonderful, eclectic, noisy Chelsea, and I was spoiled with bars and restaurants and art galleries in every direction.

The lease on that studio expires tomorrow and I have chosen not to renew it.  I could turn this post into an acrimonious take-down of the "building management" company, but I really don't have the energy to do that.  Suffice it to say that the last few months of my tenancy were characterised by a leaky ceiling (that was only ever patched up and never properly mended), potentially hostile neighbours that played showtunes at full volume until 4am on weekdays, and lengthy interruptions to our heat, hot water, and cooking gas (the latter is still not connected).  It was definitely time to go.

While I'm certainly not sentimental about the studio apartment I'm leaving behind, I did form attachments to some of the contents (the cheerful bedspread, curtains, and cushions, just to name a few).   Those I'm keeping with me, and will be a beautiful reminder of the effort I made to carve out a little corner of Chelsea for myself.  I bequeathed some of my homewares to friends and colleagues, selling others on Craigslist and donating yet more belongings to thrift stores and even to the local animal shelter (they love used sheets and towels).  I also discovered the fantastic resource called Task Rabbit, where you can hire people to do odd jobs for you.  The guys I contracted to do heavy lifting for me were an absolute godsend.

Real estate prices in Manhattan make it really hard for many people to afford even a studio apartment, so I know how lucky I've been to have had that space to myself for the past two years.  I loved living in Chelsea and the mixed feelings I have about the apartment will never taint the overall fondness I have for the neighbourhood.

But having said all that, when I gathered up my jackets, and moved it to the exits, I knew it was closing time and I was ready to go.  The Chelsea apartment chapter is closed, and the next one is about to begin.