12th
This is where I used to live
For some reason today I have been nostalgically missing my first apartment in Atlanta. Not my lovely condo, which I miss always, but my first rental place when I got there. I only lived there for a year, but I feel like I did a lot of living during that year. Lots of great memories.
The place itself was far from perfect. It had heavily varnished floors that the varnish would peel off from in weird flakes. The parking lot never had enough spaces, my car got dinged constantly, and my friends’ cars got towed from it on more than one occasion. There were no closets in the bedroom, only in the hall. The neighbors were loud. The kitchen was small. And it was the only place I have lived in my whole life other than a college dorm room that didn’t have a washer and dryer.
But I got to know a whole city living there. It was my first real apartment that I attempted to decorate (wall-to-wall-carpeted nightmare in Norfolk definitely does not count) and it was cute! I had lots of visits from old friends there and made lots of new friends. I started two relationships which were fairly significant (and ended one, before the other started, obviously). It had a real dining room, and a little balcony, both of which were exciting even though I didn’t use either very much. I had my first plant that I didn’t kill or have to give away. I remember watching the series finale of Six Feet Under there and bawling my eyes out. I remember cooking vegetarian food and watching Arrested Development for hours there with Joseph the summer he interned at the AJC. I found my favorite Atlanta bar, which I could walk to. In fact, I could walk to lots of fun places, and did.
Ah, memories. Here’s to you, old apartment.
