Friday, June 13, 2008

MOVING DAY

I had found out about the apartment in a one line Craigslist ad. The description was simply that it was four bedrooms, and gave the address, price and e-mail account. It's not easy to find a four bedroom apartment in New York. (Well let's just face it, apartment hunting isn't exactly a joy to do anywhere. ) It had been even more difficult to get a hold of the owner to show me the place. Persistance had paid off, and after taking five steps in, I told him we'd take it.

Which meant that my other three roomates hadn't even seen the place, so the pressure was on me if they would like it or not. There was no time or money to waste, and waiting only means someone else will snatch it up in a heartbeat. So we've always agreed to trust each other's judgement.

So far, there’s been no problems.

The place was on the corner of 125th street. It used to be an old Turkish Bathhouse, and the sign still remains above the basement entrance (also known as the rat’s home turf). If the whole Turkish bath thing seems to be a little out of place to you, you’re not alone in thinking this.

The apartment was on the fourth floor, there was no elevator, and the moving crew we had hired (and paid for) did not show up. This left my tiny mother, overweight father, 12-year-old sister, Karla, Beth, and myself to move everything up the four flights of stairs. My mother, always the problem solver, started talking to some people on the street. In no time she had recruited a couple guys who had offered to help us with the "big stuff" for some quick cash.

Half an hour later, one of them christened our bathroom by puking all over the floor. He told us “not to eat the Taco Bell.” Bullshit. It was Saturday morning and he was clearly more hung over then we were. A friend of his came in as his replacement, and after a couple hours and an ass-load of trips up and down the stairs the Uhaul truck was empty.

My mother opted to take a time-out and introduce herself to all of the neighbors. She stopped by each and every apartment in the building to say hello. An hour later she reported back.
“You girls should see how the apartment across the hall is set up. He has the TV against that wall," she said and pointed around living room and trying to inspire us to re-arrange the furniture we has just spent the last 10 hours moving in and out. I told her we would re-arrange later, and consider moving the TV. Of course there was not a chance in this happening. It was staying right where it was.

"There is a really neat tapestry on the wall you should go see, Amber," she continued. The girl on the next floor up is a hair dresser, and the people down the hall are cooking something that smells amazing.”

I couldn’t love her more than at the moment. She was, 100%, a people-person.

A LITTLE BACKGROUND

I was born and raised in Upstate New York. I had chickens. Our driveway was not paved. We had so many broken cars in our yard it was starting to look like a used car lot. The mailman drove a station wagon. His own station wagon.

You get the idea.

I live in Harlem now with three of my closest college friends. At first it appears that the four of us had thrown a dart at a map promising to move wherever it landed. Such is not the case. It started with only three. We moved to New York in search of a job in each our fields, and after a year of living in Brooklyn, and the addition of a fourth room mate we landed in Harlem because it was the only place we could afford. (Although, I’m not sure how long that will last because it as recently re-zoned and in 10 years will most likely be the next trendy SOHO. ) Contrary to popular belief, we are not ducking from bullets. I’m not afraid to walk home at night (although I’m obviously avoiding dark alleyways-given). I’m also not going to pretend that if I had a choice on living anywhere in the world, I would pick Harlem. No way. I will say that I like it here. There’s never a dull moment.
At one point, I realized what an opportunity I had. This could be a real gem. Although I cannot possibly give insight to the inner workings of this historical neighborhood, I can provide a window. Here is the view of an outsider who is now on the inside. This is the view from someone raised in an entirely different environment. I will try to be as honest as possible, and to not sugarcoat anything.
This is the story of four country white girls living in Harlem New York.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

BACK IN ACTION

Hello to all those who were reading The Mirage. As busy as I've been lately, there is always time to write. However, as I said I can no longer write about waiting tables. I apologize to every struggling server out there, but I'm tired of re-living the day online. I realized however, that I have the makings for an interesting blog right in front of me, and it has nothing to do with complaining about restaurants. So from now on this blog is going to be about "4 Country Girls Living in Harlem." (among other things) Expect postings is the next few days.

Thanks to all, I hope you enjoy it.
~Amber
Mirage
Mirage