It's safe to say I've taken a bit of a hiatus in terms of the whole written life updates front. Full disclosure, I haven't written a blog (or much anything of substance really) in almost a year—355 days to be exact. But in true Helen fashion, here I am, avoiding the annual blogger label by concocting something for you all to read a mere 10 days before the yearly deadline.
Things were much different when I wrote my last personal dispatch. This time last year, I was substitute teaching at Mt.Blue and wondering if I'd ever get on with my life. I was occupying the third floor loft of my parents' new home in Industry, Maine, a place where I harbored zero friends and only a handful of acquaintances. Now, as if plucked from my wildest 11-year-old dreams, I write to you from the emerald green Wayfair couch in my studio apartment on Congress Street in Portland—half glass of Riesling to my left, almost finished pint of Ben & Jerry's slowly melting into a pool of fudge and vanilla to my right. My home is nothing massive like the city flats that TV series like New Girl instill the false expectations of, but it's mine, mine and only mine. Five hundred and three square feet of pure living sanctuary, owned and operated by yours truly.
Living alone has always been my North Star. I've known since the day I learned what an apartment was that I could only coexist in a shared living space for so long. That I would never be one of those people who regrets not exploring solitudinarian ways of life until too late. Don't get me wrong, I have the fondest of memories growing up in a full household, sharing meals with roommates, and living amongst fellow employees in a dormitory, but having my own place has always been the objective.
After scouring what felt like endless Craigslist ads and Apartment.com listings, I found my apartment where it seems everybody finds everything these days: Facebook. Whether it's a 2009 Ford Focus, an end table made from world encyclopedias, or a studio (yes, I did indeed discover and purchase all three of those things), Facebook Marketplace is the ace up my sleeve. I was scrolling through the listings on a whim one December Friday night, haphazardly munching on the crust of a slice of Basil's cheese pizza when I found a posting that stood out from the rest: "Beautiful studio apartment located in the heart of Portland!" read the caption. Immediately intrigued by the words beautiful, studio, and heart of Portland, I clicked on the post. There were about nine photos displaying—almost to a T—the several facets of my ideal apartment that I consider non-negotiable. Wood floors, massive windows, high ceilings, a claw foot bathtub, and a kitchen area with a reasonable amount of space for cooking AND entertaining, sold me from the get-go.
"Oh my god, look at this!" I shouted to my parents who didn't quite register what I'd said given the half-chewed pizza slice still present in my mouth.
I swallowed in an audible gulp and waved my phone around before handing it over to my father for initial review.
"Wow, Helen. I can't see what's wrong with this," said my dad, in disbelief that I'd somehow found a winner before he could (he's a self-proclaimed Facebook Marketplace tycoon so you can understand the disappointment that this wasn't his find). He went on to "ooh" and "ah" at all the things that had wowed me too before encouraging me to send a message inquiring about the unit. That's when I noticed the time stamp on the listing. It had been posted not ten minutes prior meaning I needed to act fast.
I clicked on the profile icon of the Facebook seller.
From her profile, which I investigated preliminarily to ensure this wasn't a scam, I gathered that she was a young blonde female, similar in age to myself, who worked at a cycle studio somewhere in Southern Maine. Based on her photo filters and bike shorts/button down ensembles I also made some inferences about her tone of voice, where she probably studied abroad, and how much money she makes—but that's besides the point.
My fingers went into subconscious overdrive, dancing around the keyboard, crafting the perfect message that expressed interest but not desperation. I didn't want to give this girl the impression that I'd sever a finger to have her place, though admittedly I would've considered it. She replied a few minutes later with smiley faced emojis and exclamation points that exhibited her interest in me as a potential renter. Two can play at this game, I thought to myself as I matched her enthusiasm with thumbs ups and a few too many "thanks so much!"s. I guess working in a corporate environment as a woman and succumbing to the overly nice email routine really does come in handy after all.
Three days and one snow storm later, I found myself at the doorway of my future studio, in awe of the glorious area before me. It was even better in person. The 3 p.m. sunlight magnificently poured in from the front room windows, lighting up the chestnut colored floor and warming the skin on my face. After a brief tour and a few questions that I asked only to sound like I knew what I was talking about, I hit the poor girl with my decision.
"I'll take it," I said, as if she'd asked me (which she hadn't).
She walked me downstairs to the apartment management office where I was handed a three-page lease application and a pen that didn't work. Right away, I knew I would have to be savvy about meeting certain requirements that I didn't qualify for. For starters, I didn't have three years of rental history—hell I didn't even have one year—and I certainly didn't have a co-signer on hand. To make matters worse, another prospective buyer showed up simultaneously, ready to be given the grand tour that I'd just witnessed myself.
I had to make moves quickly.
I shifted my focus to the person sitting in the management office. She was an older, asian woman who spoke bluntly and in broken English at best. She seemed important, or at least as if her approval of me meant the difference between homelessness or not. I started to explain my situation, spending a three-to-one ratio discussing my credit score and general trustworthiness versus my lack of rental history. By the end of the conversation, we had an agreement.
"I like you. I think you're smart," she said, squinting her eyes at me as if waiting for a reaction. I smiled and thanked her, hoping it was the right one.
She told me to finish the application, hand over $40 for a background check, and get my dad to sign the lease agreement as a co-signer by the end of the day. Flash forward two hours later, and I had the application signed, scanned, and sent (the lesser known Stevie Wonder hit) and the place was mine... well mine in about a month at the time.
Naturally, I decided to move in on February 4, the coldest day of the year and polar vortex of the decade. What can I say? There's something about -45° wind chill temps that just make me want to spend my Saturday afternoon unloading a UHaul in the middle of Congress Street. Ultimately, with the help of several able hands, I got it done. By 5 p.m. that evening, I had a whole lot of cardboard and a chaotic studio that somewhat resembled a functioning living space.
Since then, things have gone fairly to plan.
I spend too much money on eating out, take 40-minute steamy showers, and waste 15 minutes each morning wondering whether or not the neighbors living across the street can see me changing in front of the window.
One of the best parts of living here is getting familiar with my new neighborhood, the West End, in which I now have a local spot for everything. I've got my favorite breakfast sandwich from the Ugly Duckling; the best (and not overly pretentious) coffee shop: CBD; the perfect baguette made by Barak at Zu Bakery; the best pizza: Lazzari; and the best cheap pizza: Pizzaiolo. As far as local watering holes go, my favorites fluctuate pending the mood of my liver and wallet. I've been known to chug cheap tall boys at CBG, yet I wouldn't turn down a $15 craft cocktail from Bramhall either.
Fortunately for me, yet unfortunately for my lack of closet space—the West End is home to a half dozen thrift shops, ranging in price from ultra curated Y2K to good ol' fashioned $1 garment bins. Live music is also in abundance here. I'm a stone's throw from the State Theater, Longfellow Square, and the Space Gallery, and there's a jazz bar across the street that occasionally lulls me to sleep with deep saxophone riffs and slow, rich timbres from a bass.
Food, clothing, and music aside (which of course make up my holy trinity), my favorite part of living here is the people watching. My windows offer the perfect view into a tea shop across the street where there are seldom less than three remote workers with their eyebrows furrowed into a MacBook. Then of course there's the experience of watching visitors attempt to parallel park at the sparse street spots, squeezing into fifteen foot spaces and coughing up quarters at the meters on Sundays (parking is free on Sundays, but the average tourist doesn't know that).
Perhaps the most volatile, sad, entertaining, and intriguing group of folks to observe from my window is the homeless population of inner-city Portland. At night I'm woken up by at least one person perusing the street shouting about how "this fucking city is a piece of shit," or singing an old off-key shanty at top volume. Plus there's the occasional cryer—I've coined them the wailers—these are folks who simply scream cry whilst making their way past may apartment at 3 a.m. As someone who's always felt empathetic toward those down on their luck, I try to spare few bucks when I have them, buy coffees when I remember to, and if nothing else, say my hello's and good morning's. I'm glad to know the colder weather is nearing an end, because although I'm not naive to Portland's growing issue of homelessness, it's a whole other animal to walk by sleeping bag after sleeping bag, shoved into a doorway corner on a below freezing night with rain. I can't think of a better word than disheartening to describe the way it feels to know that people are still freezing to death in one of the most progressive, wealthy cities in the Northeast in the 21st century.
If there's one thing that the sheer coexistence of Portlanders from all walks of life in all financial standings forces you to acknowledge, it's what you do have. I have a home, heat (in fact sometimes too much), too many clothes, a job that pays me to do the things I enjoy, a full fridge (though it isn't often stocked with the utmost nutritional of ingredients), clean water from my sink, and hundreds of other little luxuries of life that I often forget to appreciate.
Life is bliss, I'm exactly where I need to be, and wanting to be here makes it all the sweeter. Alas, I won't bore you with the idiosyncrasies of my day-to-day just yet. We'll save those for a later blog or three.
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