Chez Moi

There’s always a moment in a girl’s life where, well, things just click. Or at least they appear to…in that very moment where you’re standing on a wooden stool, cleaning the cabinets of your brand new ¼ kitchen space, of your ancient “English” basement rental in the middle of the city. A summer thunderstorm has just paraded through as if to brusquely announce your arrival: Freedom!!! A grown woman at last!

Frankly, I am currently in the middle of my (maybe) 12x12 studio; glorious, overbearing brick fireplace (it does work, fabulous) starring me down for its grandeur towers over the room making it a bit more of a home compared to four thrice-painted over walls of bland ivory. The question I’d like to ask, though, is why didn’t someone tell me earlier that moving out and onwards from the nest could be so indifferently liberating? A semi-contradictory statement that may be, I, being the oldest, have always been tightly held on to. And now I am able to pack up, move (though not too far) from home and begin a bizarre state of adulthood – or at least independence.

It’s a small modest space, really. But to me it’s pretty near perfect. Not much is needed – I don’t need a palace, a palazzo in the middle of Naples with a grand veranda upon which to have an afternoon espresso. Just me and my books; the fresh air streaming through the open door; the sight of the intricate ivy sculpted out of the wrought-iron staircase above; the scent of the fresh, cleansing summer rain precipitating from the crisp blue sky above blotted with thick, cumulus clouds, opaque and comfortable.

Sigh.

Now to tackle the boxes. God, I hate unpacking.

A view of my stretch of North Carolina Avenue. Quaint & serene.