Other People's Houses, But Closer to Home

Or a home.

Like millions of immigrants before us, we have arrived in New York, but via JFK Airport, not Ellis Island.

We flew in on the red eye with five bags for the three of us (JetBlue thankfully did not charge us a dime for the extra bags. They were phenomenal.) and showed up at our sublet for a hot bath and sleep.

Yep. A sublet. We're not home yet. But I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel to this year and a half of living out of suitcases. We're about six, maybe eight, God forbid twelve weeks away from finding our own home, and having our things actually move there with us.

However, we are subletting a beautifully restored brownstone from a very nice fellow who happens to have a very monkish ascetic aesthetic. There's very little furniture, yet what there is is good quality mid-century modern. He has two twin beds - one in his bedroom for him to sleep on and one as a day bed in the living room. He said, "Two people can snuggle in and be comfortable in a twin bed, but I can bring in a full size if necessary."

Yes, please.

My sister Briana's response was very similar to mine: Yes, but if you're not twenty years old and in your first serious relationship, who would want to? And even at twenty years old in your first serious relationship, sleeping with two of your skinny selves snuggled into a twin bed yielded neck cramps and sore backs.

The other details of the monkish ascetic aesthetic? Communist sand papery one ply toilet paper, thin covers, scratchy towels. I am eternally grateful for this sublet and the beauty of the space, yet my instant reaction this morning while tired, cold, and craving a hot bath and down comforter the way alcoholics crave gin was, "It's beautiful, but it's not home."

As always, it takes a bit to settle into a place, for it to sink in that we're actually here to live, and not just visiting one more place, even if we are literally living out of suitcases (no dressers in this apartment).

As always, I travel with my favorite things, so I can pull them out and place them on shelves and feel a little familiarity in my new surroundings. I lost my truffle salt somewhere along the way (This is kind of tragic given that salt is my drug of choice and I have yet to find a salt shaker in this place, but I learned that the Portland based salt store The Meadow opened a Manhattan store a month ago! How lucky am I?) but of course have my creepy yet cool hands that I love. I pulled them out and placed them on the mantel. After my delicious hot bath and five hour nap. It's home for now.