A few weeks ago, I moved to Davis Square, and I’m absolutely loving it. I have a great new apartment, very cool new roommates (going to see Cirque du Soleil with them next month!), an absolutely fantastic new neighborhood with everything I could want (all kinds of restaurants and stores, a movie theater, some cool bars, a cupcake place, a library, a park, everything!), and a commute to work that’s less than half what it used to be when I lived on the Green Line. My co-workers are probably very relieved that I no longer come in bitching about the T, and the move is probably going to cut down majorly on my “the-T-sucks” posts.
My lease started August 1, but my lease on my old place didn’t end until August 31. I moved into this new place on August 18, but this week is the first time in two years that I don’t officially live in my first apartment.
And this is where I talk about it a little. As much as I love my new place, that first apartment is always going to hold a special place in my heart. For one thing, it was far from the crappy first apartment that most people have. I lucked into a great place that was very reasonably priced and HUGE. And I had some terrific times there—watching movies with friends, decorating for the holidays, sitting on the balcony reading the Sunday Globe, and having some amazing late-night conversations with Christina, the best person in the world to talk to at three o’clock in the morning.
I started this blog from my old apartment. I watched the fourth season of The O.C. there. I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows there. I watched the Sox win the World Series from there. I had some great roommates there—Christina and Chris, and then Stephanie after Christina moved out. I also went through some very difficult times that were too personal to write about here, and as tough as those times were, I’m glad that while they were going on, I had a great place to come home to.
So, here are some pictures to remember my wonderful old apartment by: