Years ago I packed myself out of a ground floor studio on 78th St., where I had lived for over a decade. It had virtues—in a handsome brownstone, facing a tree-lined street, fine for me and revolving cats. But after so long a stay I tired of feeling as if I were occupying a hotel room, not bothering unless company was due to close the convertible sofa that served as my bed.
More than that, at age 43 it seemed past time to graduate beyond a studio apartment. I told the current cat that she and I needed to move.
The first place a rental agent brought me to was the kind of building I requested, pre-war, by chance just one block away, on 77th St. The agent ushered me into a one-bedroom apartment emphasizing that it was new on the market and likely wouldn’t be available long. I figured that might be right—the living room and bedroom were spacious, the kitchen and bathroom each had windows, rarities in newer buildings. It had a peaceful air. And an elevator, something I’d never had in my life, whisked you upstairs and down to the laundry room.
The rent would be protected under New York City rent laws. The difference from the studio was the difference in square footage which significantly (so it seemed) bumped up the amount owed every month. I hesitated at the increase I’d have to pay as a single person on a teacher’s salary. But the agent was clever in shepherding me to a place he figured I would like. I called a friend to come look (and stamp his approval).
Back in my cramped studio, I cringed and called the agent, before someone else did, to say I’d take the apartment. I was smart, he declared. Soon, a deposit in hand, I nervously signed the lease and in early June packed up and moved with my cat. She smelled around and took to the new quarters, as did I. We a duo relished the novelty of ambling from room to room.
I’ve remained in this place for, well, a long time—several decades. Over the years the rent has continued to climb, but it remains under rent protection and is today less than half what the apartment rents for in the open market.
More than once I regretted not looking for a different view and a second bedroom. But age and sloth have pitched in to give me less and less appetite for change. And there’s the matter of usage. My (one) bedroom being a good size, it serves me as something of a home, furnished with bed, dresser, TV, small sofa, desk, computer, and books.
Now I have a proper living room. Though rather large, it suffers from little outdoor light and little usage and little need, since most of what I do I like to do in the bedroom. It can’t be very happy, since it has to face an air shaft and gets not much human warmth. With space as a premium, I feel guilty for having a room mostly there only to walk through. It’s nicer, friendlier, when company does come.
My old studio being just on the next street, I often walk along that block and reminisce about many good times there. A lot younger then, needs simpler. But not so very much. Though I would rebel at needing to give up my apartment, I could imagine living in a comfortable studio once more—a lot in arm’s reach, maybe a view of a tree-lined street. Perhaps a lower rent. It would be manageable.
I’ve gotten a lesson in seeking more than I need.
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Stanley Ely writes about places he’s lived in his new book, “Thinking It Through: Reflections Past Eighty.”