Part 1 is here.
A few days after my new roller-derby league’s first practice at the rink, I moved into my new apartment, a decrepit studio roosted atop the tiny row of shops on Main Street. My mother had been right: it was exactly the sort of outdated decor I’d find endearing, complete with hideous linoleum. (Floral and geometric? How exotic!) The place had no shower and a kitchen sink that sprayed water in three different directions (none of them “downward,” sadly). But my parents had kindly applied a stunning new paint job to it, and I noted its crystal doorknobs, arched doorways, deep cast-iron tub, and built-in cabinetry with approval.
I scored this wee residence for a pittance of $500 a month, including heat and water.
At the time, I was trying to take a picture of my bike, not my apartment. That’s probably obvious.
This felt like home, for sure. It was the realm outside those walls I was less certain about.