A Touch of Nostalgia

A smiling attendant with manners and an excellent grasp of the English language made me homesick for my apartment in Philly. I lived in a doorman, wonderfully staffed, 2-bedroom apartment on a high floor in a prewar high rise gem with a beautiful western view, 2 baths, 2 walk in closets, and washer dryer. I paid less than what I pay for the dump I now call home. The closest I have to a doorman is a hairy fat man who wears a stained wife beater, pretends not to speak English and curses loudly at his wife in a foreign tongue. He curses even louder after someone calls, needing a repair. After he fixed my ceiling, it took 3 weeks and hundreds of air fresheners to remove the stench of his body odor. In Philly, I could count on my door to open. I never thought it was possible to be locked in your own apartment. The day I moved here, the lock stuck and I had to call the police. They came in minutes, and asked me to crawl out my window and throw my keys down from the fire escape. They introduced me to my congenial super, who didn’t start the stream of foreign curses until after the officers had departed. “Why didn’t you call me?” asked the super. “I just met you. I didn’t have your phone number.” Two years later, it happened again. The outside doorknob came off and fell to the floor. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was inside when it happened. When I finally made it to work my boss said that had to be the greatest excuse he ever heard. The next day, I brought him the doorknob. What was I thinking? All I ever wanted was to live in New York. I never thought I would miss my old apartment so much. Until now.