It’s a wonder we got this place, but the moment I walked through the doors to inspect it, I knew it was the place. I could feel myself living here. I was meant to live here. As fate would have it, at the end of the apartment-hunting process, we ended up living here.
The day I previewed it, I was completely oblivious of the ocean view outside the window. There was so much more about the apartment that I loved at first sight.
The way the windows let the light in.
The way the flow of the space captures it.
The way the energy seemed to flow organically, connecting each room while still making them all uniquely their own, little sanctuaries among each other.
Floor to ceiling windows looking out on to the balcony.
A view of the waves crashing against the headland.
Even the hallways of the building are far more spacious than the ones I’m used to in New York. My fourth-floor walkup used to feel like it shrunk as you ascended, like a reverse Alice down the rabbit hole.
Here, in this late 70s apartment building, the halls are wide. The walls are thick and strong; reinforced concrete. A far cry from the paper walls in Brooklyn through which I could distinctly hear what our neighbours were watching (or what they were crying about).
Life at the beach just may be really nice. That is, once the weather gets a hold of itself and ends its manic moods. But now that summer is over, we may have missed the boat on consistent sunshine. Another turn of the year and it will be ours to witness again.
For now, I wear a sweatshirt. We don’t have a couch yet, so I sit on and under a blanket. I put my laptop on my closed luggage; a makeshift table. A poof acts as the evolving staple of what I need. A seat at times, a table at others.
We don’t have a fridge yet, so the cooler (see also: esky) holds our small collection of perishables.
Patience is important when you’re bringing a new apartment together. With a view of the ocean from the kitchen sink, it’s slightly less stressful to fight for the lifespan of our food.