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On a plane from Nashville to Las Vegas: My final month on the west coast (for now, at least), I was able to stay in one place for the entire stint, unlike my previous attempts. No leaving half my things in the suitcase since I knew I’d have to pack up again, no double checking the calendar to make sure I didn’t miss my relocate date; just a one-time-welcome-to-the-neighborhood event.
And speaking of neighborhood: I was very familiar with this area; in particular, this duplex. That is because last fall, I lived in this same space… but on the lower level. This time around (since the lower was still not available again!), I was able to move to the upper level. Or what I like to call, Upstairs Downstairs.
Like Apt. B (lower level), Apt. A (upper level) was a one bedroom, though B had two bathrooms. Not that I necessarily need two bathrooms, but it was always nice not to have to worry about tidying up a bathroom when I had a guest.
“A” (quotes only used to differentiate the apartment letter versus the start of a sentence -- and not used inappropriately) felt very cozy, like a visit to your favorite Great Aunt’s house. Lace curtains, hand painted dresser drawers and a bookshelf filled with a mix of the classics and self-help titles were thoughtfully arranged throughout.
The living room included a desk, where I spent most of my time,
and the bedroom included a four-poster bed, where I spent most of the rest of my time.
There was a miniature kitchen and separate breakfast table,
which made me feel like wearing an apron, heels and pearl necklace and cooking delicious meals. None of which I ever attempted. (Well, I did wear heels once and walked through the kitchen to get a bottle opener. Does that count?)
The biggest drawback was that the double stack laundry room was located downstairs… AND outside. It wasn’t the end of the world (I’m in lovely California, after all) but it did serve to be a little inconvenient, especially in 30 degree weather (I’m in lovely California in February, after all) and in the pitch black evening when I get some of my best washing done.
The best part to the sweet duplex is the front porch. Complete with a love seat, two chairs and a table, I could sit outside and do work or read (bundled up in layers and under blankets, drinking hot tea to stay warm. I promise – it gets cold in the winter, even in LA!). At one point, admiring the sunlight’s fingers rusting the branches that surround the porch, I realized: I’m living in a tree house.
Seems pretty serendipitous that I started and ended this six month journey in the same place, one floor apart, with a million miles scattered in between.
