A few months ago, a friend texted me out of the blue and said, “I think you should keep your apartment. Like forever.” Leaving the apartment wasn’t even on my mind at that point, but I had to agree with her that it would be nice to keep my cozy little spot in perpetuity. It’s hard to think about dismantling the cozy little space, but it’s harder to imagine how I would pay two rents if I were to keep this place and move elsewhere—to a bigger space, with a partner, etc. Also, I pointed out, I would take all my things with me if I moved, so the studio wouldn’t have the same magic. Still, it’s a nice fantasy to think that no matter what the future holds, I would still have my nest to return to.
I was reminded of this conversation and fantasy last weekend watching The Night We Never Met, a sweet 1993 rom-com about the punishing Manhattan rental market. A stereotypical finance bro moves in with his fiancée but is unwilling to give up his rent-controlled apartment in the West Village (smart man). He tasks his secretary with finding two tenants willing to agree to an unusual rental agreement. The three of them will share the apartment, each getting two nights a week in the apartment. Matthew Broderick’s character is a brokenhearted budding chef who’s eager to have a place to cook that’s not teeming with roommates, and a dental hygienist with artistic aspirations wants a place in the city to paint away from her dull suburban husband. They agree to pay $93 a month (about $193 today) to rent the apartment for a third of the month. Not a bad deal anywhere in the city, and certainly not in the famously expensive West Village. I won’t describe the rest of the movie except to say that it captures the not-altogether-misguided New York tendency to equate finding a great apartment with finding love true. It really was an incredible apartment.
This, I thought, is how you keep an apartment forever. I’m not sure a chef would like my kitchen, but otherwise 200 square feet is enough to shut out the rest of the city and find one’s bliss for two nights a week. As someone who highly values time alone, I would use my nights to read or write quietly and uninterrupted. And it’s nice to imagine others using the space to create or rest. Alas, there aren’t enough apartments in New York as it is, so it feels unfair to take up two even in my imagination. Also, splitting my rent three ways is still $600—not exactly a steal.
One more thing
Speaking of dream living/working arrangements… This week, New York magazine featured this story about a lovely studio on the market. The current owner is Pulitzer-Prize-winning writer Frances FitzGerald who has used it as an office for the past 20 years. I share it because I assume that, as a subscriber to this Substack, you enjoy a peek inside other people’s homes as much as I do. And if you like that one, you’re going to love this one.
worthy of note
Have you had your life changed by a humidifier yet? If not, let me convince you. You will wake up in the dry, winter air breathing easier and your dry, winter skin will be less lizard-like. Mine is a bit bulky—the space I’m willing to make for it should tell you how important it is to me—but it’s easier to empty, fill, and clean than smaller models. Easy cleaning is important because humidifiers are notorious breeding grounds for unhealthy microorganisms. Like, there is a real (curable) illness called “Humidifier Lung.” But as long as you don’t let it sit with standing water and clean it once a week with vinegar, you’ll be fine. Note: I’m not including a picture of it because it’s ugly.
this week’s read
British writer Dolly Alderton’s latest novel, Good Material, was finally released in the US last week. While I’m thrilled that Alderton is finally finding success on this side of the pond, I must take this opportunity to say that I’ve been reading her for years. Now, so should you. Besides writing witty and perceptive novels and essays, she also pens a weekly advice column (my dream job) for the Sunday Times. Good Material is a break-up story told (mostly) from the perspective of Andy, a middling London-based comedian. It’s relatable, funny, touching, and wise. In keeping with today’s sort-of theme, there is an apartment-hunting subplot. Read it to brighten up a bleak February day or save it to laugh with on the beach this summer. The trick of switching from the sullen male narrator to the insightful female narrator for the book’s final act doesn’t feel particularly fresh. Fates & Furies and Fleischman Is In Trouble did it first but, as with those, this is the best part of Alderton’s story.