Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 4)

Moving is hard. Like, really hard. So hard that I almost don't want to blog about it and relive the madness.

I had never really done a big move before. I moved to college, but that was only 50 minutes from home and I had my family's help. And their minivan. I moved to Boston for grad school. That was a bit more dramatic. My mother drove me out there and proceeded to scrub the blinds and the refrigerator and unpack all of my things and basically be Cinderella while I collapsed across the bed and sobbed, woe-is-me/Ugly Stepsister style. And then she had the gall to leave me there in a comfortable apartment (mostly furnished by my two roommates), which is exactly what I asked her to do except that when the time came, I didn't want her to leave. That was in the pre-cell phone era, so I felt way too far away. (Thanks, Mom! You're the best!)

Moving home from Boston was fun because I discovered that when the rich seniors left Boston College (I was a campus RA at the time), they also left month-old grills and patio furniture behind. They did this in the same way that they left their old beer cans scattered across their tiny lawns for enterprising Asian ladies to collect and return to the store. I could not believe that so many wonderful things were left for the taking! So I took a few. Furniture items, that is. Not beer cans. Again, my family was there with the minivan and we had a stuffed-to-the-gills drive home.

Next, I moved to New York City with exactly two suitcases. I ended up collecting more things while here, all of which my parents had to haul home when I left to go on tour with Fosse. When I moved back to the city after tour ended, I again had two suitcases and a new travel philosophy that I planned to implement in my non-tour life: "If it doesn't fit in my two suitcases, I don't want it."

That philosophy ended up buried in my closet, along with my mountain of sale rack clothes and living supplies that I hoard like a suburbanite even though I really have no room for them.

So this was my first move with a fully-stocked bedroom, my roommate's fully stocked bedroom, multiple pieces of furniture, and no minivan.

How did it all go? Stay tuned...

Little Gimp in the Big City

Manhattan really isn't built for gimps.

It's truly not. With its crowded sidewalks and the fast pace, Manhattan caters to the strong, the healthy, and the able-bodied. You can’t be too young (strollers are hard to lug everywhere and take up valuable square footage) and you can’t be too old (walkers and wheelchairs are essentially verboten). It’s survival of the fittest around here. Eat or be eaten. And according to my completely unscientific study, the fittest pedestrian predators seem to be healthy men and women between the ages of 18 and 50.  

I had only a vague notion of this subconscious anti-gimp attitude until I actually became a gimp. Temporarily, that is. I had to have more than 20 stitches in my ankle (long story), and as a result, I was not supposed to exercise, point or flex my foot, take the stairs, or walk. At all. When my doctor told me all the details (after the stitches were a done deal), I just stared at her numbly.  Not take the stairs? Did she not know that I live in a fifth floor walk-up?! Or that there were 150 stairs, two transfers, and 3 avenues of walking just to get from her office to my apartment via subway?!

I wanted to cry.

I was so terrified of ripping the stitches that I followed her instructions to the letter. Well, to the lowercase letter. I hobbled as little as I possibly could. This involved me putting most of my weight on my left leg and keeping my right leg straight, sort of like a peg leg. I had to take shuffling baby steps, which was infuriating. Avenues I used to travel in 2 minutes flat now took me at least four times as long. People with two good legs passed me left and right—well, mostly left, since I stuck to my sidewalk etiquette and hugged the right side of the sidewalk with the other slow movers. I traveled up and down my stairs at a snail’s pace. Actually, I probably made a snail look as speedy since I had to painstakingly put two feet on each step to inch my way to my apartment. I took cabs to and from work, which cost a small fortune. And I had to deal with salespeople, strangers, and cabbies asking if I was okay.

By some lucky coincidence, I had booked my plane ticket home for Christmas two days after the surgery. I was absolutely itching to get home, where I would be picked up from the airport in a car and transported directly to my parents’ couch, where I hoped to permanently remain, watching Candace Cameron, Amy Smart, and Jennifer Grey “acting” in their various Christmas movies on Lifetime, Hallmark, and ABC Family.

But first I had to figure out how to get to my plane.

I couldn’t take the subway (like I usually do) because I couldn’t walk down the subway stairs. Actually, I couldn’t even carry my suitcase to the street. I left for my flight a whopping five hours early so my Florence Nightingale-like roommate could bring my suitcase downstairs and help me to get to the airport shuttle bus before he went to work. The ride was bumpy and terribly uncomfortable, but I finally made it to the security line...where I got screamed at in front of a line of people because I asked for a chair to sit down while I took off my shoes. I was shocked. There was yelling and eye rolling and exasperated sighs. And none of them even came from me! It can’t be that unusual for someone to have trouble balancing on one foot to take of her shoes, right? What about all the not-quite-ready-for-a-wheelchair-but-unsteady-on-their-feet old people out there?

At long, long, long last, I made it through security, got on the plane, and headed home for Christmas. While I was nestled all snug in my bed (well, it was really the couch) with visions of having two good legs dancing through my head, I starting thinking that it was a Christmas miracle that I survived the concrete jungle and made it to the ease of suburbia, where the only walking I had to do was from the front door to the driveway.

I’ve certainly come away from my gimp days with a new understanding for slow walkers in the city. They might not be trying to get in my way after all. They might be following doctor’s orders. They might be injured. They might have stitches.

And I'm thrilled that I’m healing well enough to no longer be one of them. Don’t get me wrong—I’m trying to be careful and not push myself, but I can once again keep pace with the city. I have learned one thing, though. If I ever have to schedule stitches again, I’m scheduling them in the suburbs.