Today marks the one-month anniversary since my wife and I moved to a new apartment. Normally not something to crow about, it’s a night/day change for us. Our previous place was convenient, if slightly pricey, with a number of condo-like amenities.
But, from our first day there, there was something about it which bugged the hell out of me – I just couldn’t pin it down. It was nice enough, sure – recently renovated with new fixtures, free microwave, gas stove, storage, etc.. But I couldn’t write there; I can count on one hand the number of times I did substantial work in that place – and it was probably in the dead of winter, on a Sunday. Otherwise, I preferred to leave the place and go to a nearby bar.
In the summer months, when I’d be on my way home from work, I’d call my wife and we’d make plans to have a drink. Away from the apartment. When we had parties, or simply a few friends over, we found ourselves hyper-focused on what kind of cheese we were serving, rather than, say, having a good time and enjoying the company. I hated that. I didn’t like what we were turning into, and I was afraid that it was us. Us getting older, us giving up on the fact that we were actually artists and not…well…people who worried about what kind of cheese we were serving at parties.
It was mid-way into our second year there that I called it. My wife had brought up some things about the place she had trouble reconciling: the fact that it was stone cold in the winter (this, with two heaters provided by the landlord and radiators that were “timed” to kick-in), that the only significant sun shone through a single window in the kitchen, that we inexplicably couldn’t jell with the other tenants, and that, finally, we felt like outsiders in our own home. I told her the ugly truth: it was a suburban apartment. A bland hole with aspirations about as sickeningly bourgeois as the new bathroom fixtures. On a street increasingly being poached by real estate jackals, flipping postage stamp bungalows for $450,000. And this was Queen and Bathurst!
We made the best decision since getting married: we got the hell out of there.
Fast-forward to now. We ended up finding a new apartment: smaller, not-inclusive, electric stove, a dripping roof, an Alpine-esque staircase, traffic that makes our building rumble, and no storage. Perfect. We have skylights (sun!). We have a patio with a magnificent view of Toronto. We pay less rent. It may sound strange, but we couldn’t believe the difference it made to our outlook. I write at home now. Both my wife and I finally feel that we’re in our element. We regularly have friends over, cheese or no cheese. I’ve traded a few words with my downstairs neighbour, more than I did in two years at the previous place, and he seems like a nice guy. The neighbourhood – on Ossington Avenue – while “up-and-coming” is not in a rush to be at home to Starbucks any time soon. I should hope it never happens.
Well, we both knew from the first moments, but decided to stay one more year than our instincts told us to avoid constantly moving… a habit I had formed over the years.
I was afraid that it was us. Us getting older, us giving up on the fact that we were actually artists and not…well…people who worried about what kind of cheese we were serving at parties.
—Love that quote. My thinking is that there’s the crux between being an artist and sharing it, and then pushing yourself too hard like it was about advertising.