A Roof of One’s Own

I’ve been asked to describe my digs. I’m feeling lazy and at a loss for “like” constructions. This place isn’t like anywhere else I’ve lived. It’s not like anything I’ve seen in movies. It’s a tad Lower East Side tenement, but roomier. It has high ceilings and marble floors. The paint is cracked; the lighting, fluorescent. There are cobwebs in corners and meshed screens secured with Velcro across windows. I’ll let pictures do the rest.

This is Sowmiya’s house. It’s about 20 years old. Her husband built it. I live on the second floor, in one of two apartments added about five years ago.


This is the door to my apartment.


This is the first thing you see when you walk in, a baby blue refrigerator that’s so cute I want to hug it and take it home. That is, if I had a home besides this one.


This is the dining area. (And, yes, those are my unmentionables on the clothesline strung between windows.)


Here’s my kitchen.


And here’s my bedroom.


I saved the best part for last. Check out the roof.


The roof is spacious, surrounded by trees and, so far, all mine. I can watch the sun rise while sipping coffee. (I haven’t, but it’s divine to know I can.) I can practice yoga. (Done that.) God, how I wished for a balcony when I lived in LA, a patch of outdoor space where I could read the Sunday paper. Now I have enough room for cartwheels.

Sowmiya says I can entertain friends up there, invite them over when the moon is full. I don’t have friends yet, and I’m not in a hurry to make some. I’m greedy for solitude. That may come as a shock to people who know me. Back home, I’m an outgoing sort. I’m the organizer of weekend getaways and surprise parties. I’m the link between this friend and that. I chat up strangers and security guards. I’m a breaker of ice.

Here, I feel like hibernating. I find interactions arduous, even the friendly, fleeting kind. I pray Sowmiya’s front door is closed when I pass by. I’m reluctant to eat in restaurants because it requires exchanges with waiters and busboys. Dinnertime? Cashews and fresh pomegranate will do. My neighbor Marco has invited me over for coffee. I’m noncommittal.

Call it reverse metamorphosis. This social butterfly has entered a pupal stage.

The apartment suits my purposes. I come and go as I please. I brew coffee in the morning, drink tea at night and take cool showers at both ends. I park myself under a ceiling fan and read for hours. Much to my amazement, I have wireless Internet access if I position my laptop just so. I spend a lot of time in that just-so spot, which just happens to be in the middle of my bed.

“What’s your place like?” friends write. It’s perfect.