December 9, 2010

• The second apartment was only a few blocks away.

  
  illustration by Yelena-Bryksenkova

  It was just off Roncesvalles, the main street in the west-end Russian and Polish neighbourhood. I’ve been living close by for the last eight years and it’s always been one of my – if not my very – favourite place in the city. A mix of gentrification and old school holdouts, the strip alternates between chi-chi cafes and boutiques side by side with drugstores, butchers and bakeries that have been there forever. The houses that fill the subdivisions on either side alternate traditional and majestic – their tenants comprised of aging eastern European immigrants, young yuppy families and renters. It suits me.

  I wasn’t really expecting anything from the apartment. I didn’t have a chance to anticipate and, though I was the one who found the listing, I couldn’t remember anything about it. One of the owners, a woman, greeted us at the door. She was out of breath and laughing. She instantly launched into some story about standing on the newel post to change a light bulb. She ushered us in out of the cold and left us on the landing to wait for her husband. A man in his forties with light hair and an open expression jogged down the stairs and shook our hands.

  And then we went in.

  What can you say about those old converted houses? They are always odd, always particular to themselves. The front door opened up into a large room of indeterminate function. “You could use it as a dining room,” the man said, “or an office, depending on what you need.” To the right, separated by French doors, was a small living room with a big picture window facing the street. Above, the transom was the original stained glass in dark reds and blues and greens.

  The man turned left and led us along a short hallway. He pointed to the right with a grin, “That’s our retro bathroom.” I looked inside to find (to my delight) a blue toilet and tub. The kitchen was next; painted a garish yellow, it was big enough for a table and had a nice substantial window. “You can do whatever you like with the colours.” I smiled apologetically and evened out my expression. 

  The last room was the bedroom. After all the hardwood, it was the only room with carpet. I only thought about it for a second before I was distracted by the sheer size of it. The current tenants’ queen-size bed looked inconsequential. The dresser and crib (the latter indicating the reason they were moving) didn’t seem to cut into the floor space at all. 

  And finally, at the end of the bedroom was a door to a mudroom – a perfect place to for extra storage and bikes. It led to a tiny deck and “shared” garden.

  C was wary of living under the landlord. He worried about whether or not we could afford it. All I could think about was what the colour scheme should be and how I could show those campy blue fixtures to their best effect. I tried to decide which table would be best in the kitchen and how we’d augment the closet situation. (No matter how perfect a space, I have learned there are almost NEVER enough closets.) I pictured the office-den I would create, imagining my brown chair next to my big bookcase. Maybe I’d put it in the corner between the narrow window and the old radiator for winter reading. Of all the places we’d seen, this was the one I wanted. It caught me completely off guard.

  So we filled out the application.
  Now we wait.
  g. 

   

   

  • 8:06 am
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