Seasons of lurve

Ten years ago, I packed up my stuff in boxes and bags (some of which, yes, were trash bags as I couldn't afford anything fancy), and moved from Treasure Island to my place on Nob Hill. I remember the last trip I made hauling my stuff to the new apartment, I took the 108 Treasure Island bus across the Bay Bridge and to the Transbay Terminal. I think I had less than ten dollars on me, so I took a cab from there, but had to stop about a block or two from the apartment so I could afford the fare and a dollar tip.

It took awhile before the apartment felt like my own, since I, in essence, inherited it from VPA. I've had a total of seven roommates in that ten years time, the last of which was Tina, who moved out yesterday. Although the additional rent I'll have to pay will pose a bit of a burden, I was in all honesty excited about having the place to myself, even if only because I can have a wank with my bedroom door wide open, and walk to the bathroom naked in the morning to take a shower.

It's the little things.

I used to refer to the apartment as Casa Fiesta, particularly during the time that J-Co lived here, and she would have friends stay over the weekend. Friends who would eventually become my friends, like Tina. Now I refer to it as My Very Own Buddhist Temple or My Little Shoebox in the Sky. When I tell people I live in Nob Hill, I quickly have to qualify it by saying, "but not the nice, ritzy, upscale part." I may live a stone's throw from the Fairmont and the Mark Hopkins hotels, but these are not posh digs, just a place I call home.

I remember when I first arrived at the apartment to do roommate interviews, it seemed so small. But such is the case with most apartments in SF. And it's not like a boy and his cat need a lot of room. Plus, less space means less to clean.

As the dot-com 2.0 wave has hit the city, and new luxury apartment building are being built on every other block, I have sat back and realized my little rent-controlled chateau is something to treasure. I've always told VPA that if I met someone and he wanted to move in to a place together, I would have him sign an air tight palimony agreement reimbursing me the significantly increased rent I would end up having to pay if I moved into a new place and had to pay market for it. I love this apartment probably more than I ever could another person. It's the longest I've ever actually lived in one place in my life. And with the nominal rent increases every year, I could conceivably live here until I die, and I plan to do so.

So from age twenty seven to thirty seven, I've lived happily ever after here, and hope to forevermore. What an amazing decade. Here's to several more.