A Studio in Chelsea

Hello Stranger,

Before moving to New York, like every person eager to join the Big Apple crowd, I played with the image of what living in it would be like, generously borrowing details from the extensive amount of unrealistic movies shot in the city. I had prepared myself for the possibility of cramped space, extravagant & loud neighbours (that I will never get to know) and the glamour oozing from the abundance of odd entertainment one can invest savings and free time in.

Almost a year ago, after 2 frantic weeks of apartment hunting, I opted in for a small studio in the heart of Chelsea. I considered it affordable enough so I don't scream every time I look at my monthly balance, and also central enough so I have Manhattan at my disposal. However, I dare to believe that there is no such thing as a bargain in this city, and surely my choice of living space began contributing with comedy material from day 1.

Glance through the window

Today I wake up to a rainy Sunday, gushing water onto my window. With my first glance, I spot a pigeon nesting right on top of the AC, cuddling tightly to the window pane and looking miserably wet. I’m almost driven out of bed with the need to get a towel and let him in to dry up. With the second glance I notice that none of the power outlets are glaring in their usual red light, which means I have no electricity. I pull the blanket back on top of my head and give out a prolonged sigh. This is the second time the power has gone out in the past 7 days. The snow last Friday didn’t last, but it left my apartment dark, just as the rain is doing today.

I stagger out of bed, unwilling to succumb to the routine that will follow - calling the Super, not reaching him, calling the emergency hotline, having to spell my name at least 4 times until they get it right (even though I know they have it on file from all of my previous calls), having to deal with the questions, that will inevitable induce the answer: “We will get there someone as soon as we can”, which translated means - “Get out of the house, you won’t have electricity any time soon”. Snap, I had planned a lazy morning in bed with a generic movie - bad enough to wake up my inner critic and let it drop sarcastic comments in my head, but OK-ish enough to overcome the need to do anything else like clean, cook or dwell on what’s wrong in my life and blow these thoughts out of proportions. 

The "Horo" dance at Golden Festival

I am in a way too good of a mood this morning to succumb to dark weekend thoughts though. I went to the Golden Festival in Brooklyn the night before and spent more than 6 hours dancing to live Balkan music with an incredibly cheerful crowd of all ages. Grand Prospect Hall, where the festival was held, had transform from a lavishly decorated wedding venue to the home of thousands fellow "Balkaners" and many eccentric Brooklyners, who were there just for the good show. The event was the perfect example of the things you can stumble onto in this city and transform into a memorable story you tell for months to people who didn’t make it to the party and for years to people who’ve never been to New York.  

Giving into the fact that I live alone and I loathe complete silence for prolonged periods of time, I dust up an old audiobook, which by the second chapter manages to catch my complete curiosity and attention. I'm switching between listening to it intently and trying to figure out which necessary daily routines I can perform in the lack of electrical power. Last week I found out that my tin can of an apartment is wired in a very creative way. The outlets, microwave, stove and fridge are out cold, so is the light in the bathroom. The light in my bedroom and the dishwasher, however, seem to be working perfectly well. I settle for a shower in candlelight. Even though its 11 a.m., the rain has thrown a thick grey layer over Midtown, which mixed with all the concrete makes the scenery appear like a 1920s black & white movie set. I rock “Walk of life” by Dire Straits under the hot water and proceed onto applying some makeup. In the meantime the Super has called already twice and has texted me another 5 times with status updates on the progress made to resolve the problem. It appears to be something outside of the building, probably an issue with the connection running from the street. The rain seems to be triggering a short circuit. I nod in the speaker understandingly but I have no intention to wait in my apartment for the outcome. In the lack of light and visual entertainment the studio looks sad, small and not glam at all.

Of course, having living space conflicts is an inseparable part of the New York experience. It’s a necessary CV entry for anybody, looking for a thrill and conversion material. And renting a “cheap” (in New York real estate currency) apartment in Chelsea promises by default quirky side effects, such as the fact that hot water, heat and electricity come and go whenever they please, something that I experienced as a child in Bulgaria during the water and electricity regime back in the early 90s.

The apartment comes with a “Mr. Heckles” as well (for everyone who didn’t grow up in the 90s, this a reference to the sitcom Friends), my hispanic neighbour from downstairs, who pays me a visit every time I take a bath. And despite the fact that our conversations always go the same way, he doesn’t give up on his ritual. Now I’m always prepared for his insisting knock on my door about 10 mins after I’ve settled into the bathtub. He’s never impolite though. On the contrary, his skinny frame, a head shorter than me, always throws an apologetic glance and a smile in my direction. 

“There is water coming down the wall. I’m just checking to see what you are doing that is causing the leak.” 

“Bath again, Mr. Rodriguez”, I reply back with an uneasy smile, as my feet leave soapy prints all over the floor, “Just call the Super and let him fix that leaking pipe”.

New York by Night

There have been many times when I've looked over my belongings, which after the move from Germany have shrunk to the most necessary clothes & books, and I've wondered if New York is the answer to all prayers for exciting living and if one misses out for not being here. After all I exchanged an envious closet space and a 2 bedroom apartment in Hamburg for this studio, which came with the garbage truck sound at 1 a.m., the angry cab horns all around the clock and all the additional sass provided by the aging body of my building. And I've been on both sides of the pros & cons arguments about the city. What keeps me here is the novelty - New York does feel like the centre of the universe, with its cold beauty and constant international point of reference in all topics of human life from fashion to politics to wealth. This modern day Babylon is filled with the chatter in hundreds of languages, it echoes the dreams of so many relentless souls, who are here because they WANT to be exactly here and nowhere else. This circulating energy is a drug that I, in particular, am uncontrollably addicted to. 

My most wonderful memories have originated from a place of discomfort and this tiny Chelsea studio provides just the right amount of that to drive me out in search of the odd New York life. I love this noisy rat hole.

...and BTW, the electricity came back at 7 p.m.

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