I accidentally moved to a neighborhood
It’s freaking me out
My last apartment had all the things I could ever want: a helpful doorman, fast elevators, neighbors that never spoke to me, and sound-proof walls that made sure I never heard them.
The second year I lived in that building, on Thanksgiving morning, there was a knock at my door. For a moment I was quite pleased with myself for having found a restaurant that would deliver breakfast on Thanksgiving, of all days, before remembering that I hadn’t ordered any food. I opened the door and saw a woman I’d never seen before. It was my neighbor asking for a cup of flour, which she explained shortly after explaining that she was my neighbor.
Home was a condo on the fifteenth floor of a filing cabinet for widows and young professionals. —Fight Club
Other than actually living on the eight floor, that quote does reasonable justice to the studio on New Montgomery Street that I called home for three and a half years.
I interacted more with the art-students-turned-sweatshop-workers in the pseudo-office on the eighth floor across the street than anyone in my actual building. I never learned a single one of the barista’s names at the coffee shop next to the lobby; in turn, they never learned how to make a decent cappuccino. I was as isolated from others as someone surrounded by people on all sides can be.
When the couple I leased my apartment from wanted to raise the (admittedly too low) rent earlier this year, I decided to move . Through a series of exacerbated real estate demand, irresponsible procrastination, and fortunate timing, I accidentally ended up living in a “real neighborhood.” Within days, people in my building were waving to me and baristas at my new local coffee shop were remembering my cappuccino-and-sandwich order.
The woman who owns the dry cleaner around the corner has progressed our relationship to the “no receipt when you drop off your laundry because I obviously know your name” phase. Personally, I think she’s taking things too fast, and I still have no idea what her name is. Her husband is so confused by the situation that he creates a new record for me in their computer system whenever I mistime my pickup for his shift. I’m sure he also wonders how the hell I lost my receipt again.
I should probably feel welcomed — I feel a little violated.
All of the sudden even though you have some place to put your shit, that idea of home is gone.—Garden State
Like a lot of people my age, I grew up in the suburbs. I knew my neighbors, I rode my bike around town, and although I don’t have any particular memory of it I’m pretty sure there was a time when I wasn’t uncomfortable with the idea of anyone talking to me within 5 blocks of my house.
I’m around people all day: colleagues, friends, fellow public transit riders. I enjoy my time with them, but why not act like we don’t know each other once we all get home?
After all, we don’t.
