I moved. Not like that’s a big event. I didn’t need an 18-foot truck or a stack of boxes or a day off from work to make it happen. I just took what few things I had in my apartment in Munich, put them in a large plastic bag, and rode the subway to my new place. Moving is never fun, but at least this time it wasn’t difficult. I’ve spent the better part of three years lugging more weight, much further.
Since I was only in my last apartment for six months, I hardly had a chance to make a mess. Still, that didn’t mean I could leave without cleaning the place top to bottom like everyone always does when a security deposit is at stake. I resent that. Not because I hate cleaning – I don’t. When the place is mine, really mine, I love nothing more than to keep it spotless. But for Airbnbs and hotel rooms and temporary corporate apartments, I couldn’t care less about dust or crumbs. I leave them for someone else to deal with. Practically speaking, the cleaning fee is factored into the cost of the rental. Tidying up on the way out is like paying the waitress to eat your meal. Besides, these places are temporary. Week after week, month after month, I come and go without a trace. I like the idea of leaving my fingerprints behind. It’s proof that I was there.
Think about it. Unless you built your house from scratch, you have found at least one completely ridiculous thing someplace unexpected in your new home: a melon baller under the bed; a heavily annotated TV Guide in the linen closet; a box of tissues in the clothes dryer. These are little treasures squirreled away in drawers and cupboards proving that someone came before you and reminding you that someone will follow. I won’t say that everyone leaves those things behind on purpose, but some do. I do. I consider it a public service. I like the bewilderment of finding a box of unsharpened pencils in a wine rack or a lemon keeper in the medicine cabinet. It helps help break up the monotony of unpacking and makes me feel superior, like a person who knows where the refrigerator is and what belongs in it. Who am I to deny another person that same joy? It doesn’t seem right.
But here in Munich, between the professional cleaning crew – German, no less – that will come and the lack of things to go, I won’t be playing any of those games. I have almost nothing to spare. I cannot part with a single shoe or a milk frother or a cell phone charger. I need them. The new tenants will have to make their own fun.
Luckily for them, this apartment is its own form of entertainment. Around every corner, behind every door is something that will make you take a deep breath and wonder: Who bought this? Why? And At what cost?
Keep in mind, I’ve lived in other people’s homes for almost three years and exactly none of them were what I would call normal. There was the London apartment without a kitchen sink and the town house in Copenhagen stuffed to the brim with antique furniture. I stayed in a beach bungalow on the Gold Coast that seemed to be straight out of the 70s, a studio in Helsinki studio from the 90s and a Manhattan loft that covered both decades, plus the one in between. I know the saying about style and beauty and the eye of the beholder. More than once, I have looked directly into that eye. What I saw was the desire to install a bearclaw bathtub in the middle of the living room.
Still, I have never, I mean never, seen a place that makes me wonder What the fuck? more than the two-room apartment I landed in here in Munich.
Don’t get me wrong, the bones of the place are great. There are hardwood floors and freshly painted walls and high ceilings. It takes a lot of effort to muck it up, but the guy who owns it really did his best. For starters, he painted the bedroom orange. Why? I don’t know exactly, but I’m guessing that he thought it matched the rust colored blinds and 14 square cushions he assembled on the floor to resemble a low-end Turkish harem. For added personality, he incorporated a human-shaped wrought iron dressing rack and two “Touch Me” lamps that could be activated by the slightest of vibrations. This being the bedroom, they often created a disco-like atmosphere at the most inconvenient of times, namely when I was trying to sleep.
As I have mentioned previously, the living room is furnished with an oversized red leather sofa, the likes of which are only outdone by its companion piece, a white leather beanbag chair. Decorating the walls is a giant framed poster of shoes, as well as 12 snapshots of the same mountain from various angles, some of which showcase a fair amount of paved road, double yellow line and all. “I appreciate nature,” these photos say. “From a distance.”
I don’t want to get into the kitchen because that room is of no real consequence to me. It’s where I keep the coffee maker and, on occasion, a bottle of wine. Still, I will say this: there is a table designed to seat six, although there are enough chairs to accommodate just two. And, no, the room really isn’t big enough for any of it.
I am neither joking nor exaggerating. Email subscribers, click here for pictures.
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One of the first things I did upon moving into this apartment was take all that stuff – the bean bag chair, the pillows, the dress form, a CD player, a vase full of seashells – and shove it all in the walk-in closet. I know that’s a waste of a closet, but I had to do it. I didn’t feel bad about it either. I had two other closets where I could hang my clothes and line up my shoes. Also, don’t forget – I’ve been living out of a plastic Snoopy bag. I don’t exactly need the space.
I know what you’re thinking: If I hate this apartment so much, why did I choose it in the first place? Well, I didn’t. I picked three other places first and none of them would accept an American tenant without the benefit of meeting her beforehand. This one did and I think we all can understand why. Not many people have a 16-cup Mr. Coffee and shoe-themed décor on their “must have” list.
But I don’t regret the decision. I mean, sure, the place looks like it was decorated in the dark by a robot pretending to be a bachelor, but it’s been good to me. It’s an attic apartment located across the street from a cemetery. There are gardens and parks and green space galore; every morning I woke up to the sound of birds chirping through my rust-colored blinds. Just around the corner, there’s a grocery store and a pharmacy and a wine shop, meaning that the neighborhood had everything I needed within walking distance. Almost as importantly for a person trying to write a book, it had nothing that I wanted: no trendy restaurants or row of shops or chic cafes where I could easily piddle away an afternoon browsing display windows or reading a book instead of working on my own. The nearest subway stop, by the way, is called Alte Heide, which literally translates into old ghosts. I don’t think there’s a writer alive who wouldn’t take that as a sign.
Alte Heide. Honestly, the place would make Dickens blush.
This apartment served its purpose. It was perfect for what I wanted it to be: a writer’s nook; a stopgap; a weigh station as I transitioned from nomad to ex-pat and tried to acclimate to a life more grounded. It never felt like home and I didn’t try to change that. Instead, I took the empty space and solitude, the mundanity of waking up in the same place every morning, the boredom of living in just one city and began writing in earnest. There was nothing else to do: no people or chores or obligations to distract me like there would be at home, no world-class attractions to tempt me as they did on the road. There was nothing but unfamiliar rooms and quiet.
That emptiness lingered as I prepared to leave. The apartment was the first time I truly lived abroad, but it felt insignificant. It holds no meaning, no sentimental value. I imagine, if I walked by it next week or next month, I wouldn’t pause to pay my respects. It’s not like in Manhattan where I feel the need to point out each apartment I lived in, five in total, to friends and family from the window of a speeding taxi or on our way to dinner. I would not take a detour just to see it, or make curbside notes about what’s changed, or stop in a nearby coffee shop for old time’s sake. This place is not like those places because this place was never mine. It doesn’t seem important.
Maybe that will change later. Maybe one day, I will look back on this apartment as the place where I began.
When the rental agent returned to the apartment for the handback appointment, he glanced around the rooms, and whistled. “It’s like you didn’t even live here,” he said.
He had no idea how right he was. I worked here and I wrote here and I slept here, but I did not live here.
“Everything is empty?” he asked. “Everything of yours is out?”
I nodded. “Everything is out.”
Well, almost everything. There was still a miniature bottle of whiskey tucked away in the freezer behind an ice cube tray. I left it for the next person. The new tenant with the old ghosts.
Just love this post. And the pictures. And your perspective on what “home” means. Great writing like always!
thanks much, as always!!
I simply cannot wait to hold your book in my hands. This apartment sounds like the perfect writing abode!
oh thanks! it’s almost as good as the she-shed! when I finally get it done, you’ll be among the first to know. speaking of, I’m going to be in Canada this month and hope that I can pick up a copy of your book. I’ll email you to figure out if there’s a shop I can visit or if I can have you send one to me :)
I love this! It so reminded me of my time in the UK in my university flat… everything was horrible, but wonderful at the same time, you know?
Yes, I know exactly. I had such a love/hate with my place in Munich… but I only hated superficial things, so I guess it’s not so bad. Anyway – one day, maybe I’ll have a real home. Chances are I’ll be cohabitating though, which means that it still won’t be “mine” so much as “ours.” I like the idea – until it comes to picking out furniture and enforcing my strict “no visible cords” rule. RAMBLING – aren’t you glad we’re not on the phone for this? It would be 2 hours later and I’d be like, “What was the question, again? Was there one?”
Very exciting to be visiting and staying in different houses and apartments. Those personal spaces tell a lot about the person who decorated them. Like you, I find them very interesting because those spaces always tell a story. The pictures are amazing. It is a beautiful city.
Yes, I agree. It was interesting to see how other people make a home. I also enjoyed sampling a bunch of different styles to figure out what I like. If I ever own a home, I have a very good idea of what I want to be in it!
Thanks for reading!