34th and 34th Astoria, Queens (Dwell and Tell IV)

At "third street stuff and coffee" in Lexington, KY, the walls are decorated whimsically inside and out and there is a shelving unit there stacked with games.  I think I saw four Scrabbles.  There is some interior brick visible behind the decor and the wireless access is free.  I loved the people behind the counter.  I paid $2 for my coffee "for here."  I requested a mug and the guy behind the counter was like "that's the only way to have it, isn't it."  Yes.  Paper and styrofoam are for emergencies only.
After 86th Street on the Upper West Side, I moved to Queens.  I chose an apartment one street block and one avenue block away from my Ex.  Say what you want, but I really had no ulterior motives; it was simply the best apartment I'd seen in my search, in a great location, and at a cost I could afford (if I charged each client $5/hr more for their personal training sessions, except for a few who were "grandfathered" in to their bargain P.T. rate.)  I also truly believed I would never see him.  I have to leave for work at 5:15 A.M.  He wakes no earlier than 10:00!
... But while I was waiting for the new place to become available and crashing at Amy's, on a couch that has hosted many a wayward friend (see D & T part II), this Ex called me up and traveled from his place in Queens to the Upper West Side in the rain to plead his case and try for a second chance.  He also offered to help me with my upcoming move to his neighborhood.
I accept . . . the offer, not the wooing, we'll see how the move goes. . .
He was a champ.
Yes, we got back together.
And yes, he eventually became my husband.
During that year that I lived on the corner of 34th and 34th in Astoria, we really didn't see each other much due to various out-of-town jobs.  I used the Fall to study and get a new Personal Trainer Certification, while working my tail off with the certifications that I already had.  I taught between 6 and 10 group fitness classes a week and trained clients privately for another 20 - 25 hours a week.  I was tired a lot, but I loved loved loved my little studio apartment on 34th and 34th.  I loved the windows in their miniature cathedral shape.  I loved the pristine white walls and the clean new kitchen.  I bought furniture!  It was at this apartment that a not-so-popular Christmas tree drove me nuts throughout the holiday season with its blinking musical lights.  I loved that too.
Then, in early January I was offered a life-changing job with American Shakespeare Center.  The one-year contract they offered me turned into two, and then three, and then two more seasons and the opportunity to debut a play I wrote.  I couldn't have known any of this at the time, but I made the right decision in giving up that Astoria apartment, and perhaps, if I had hung onto it, I might have felt compelled to return to it after one year and have missed out on 3/4 of my experience with ASC in Staunton, Virginia.  But before I left Astoria to work and live in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley, I squeezed in one more play:  and one of the Most Whacked Out Scenarios Of My Life Thus Far.
I was going to Maine-in February- to tour a production of Romeo and Juliet
to schools all over the state. I would double as Benvolio and Lady Capulet and Balthazar.  I tied up all the loose ends in my fitness profession in NYC, bought some very warm, rubber-soled waterproof L.L. Beans, and went.
First, I was one of two actors who had requested "privacy," and one of the same two who was asked to share a bedroom . . . which was also open to the living room . . . and the kitchen.  The one bedroom in our house --with a door that closed-- went to our stage manager who was ten years younger than the two of us using the twin beds in the main space.  All the other actors shared a big huge house in which they all had their own room.   I understood how our house would have been considered more private, but all I wanted was a room where I could go and shut the door when I needed to.  After a week with a Juliet in the room with me all the time, we both decided to ask for another arrangement.  I was offered the basement of the Big Actor House, she would have the twin-bed bedroom/living room/kitchen to herself.  Done!
It was the home of a photographer, and the room I took had been his darkroom.  It was pretty cold down there (Remember:  Maine.  February.)  And because it was a darkroom . . . no light.  Not a sliver of light when the door was closed and the lights were off.
I made myself right at home.
The show was shaping up nicely and we were all getting along.  The fun culminated on a Snow Day we had.  Now, this is Maine.  Every day in Maine in February is a Snow Day to the rest of the world, but in Maine, they rarely close things because they are all used to the snow, but, well, while I was in Maine in the February of 07, there was a snow day because there was that much snow.  We loaded up on beer and wine and worked a 1,000 piece puzzle.  A group of us went out for a walk.  It was a sight of wonder!
Then, like in all good tragedies, what had started out so beautifully began to crash and crumble.
I was stepping on the toes of the young stage manager, a fact I totally understand now and regret, but she was not totally innocent (marking in the show report our latenesses, but not her own, for example.)  The Juliet was becoming difficult.  I still don't know what her deal was, but one time, unhappy in her "morning after" costume, she flat-out lied to the director claiming that "some people" in the women's dressing room told her it looked bad.  With only two other women in the cast, me and The Nurse got reamed.  I should have fucking gone home that day.  There was little I could say without sounding defensive, but since I had literally said nothing --I actually picked up my hairbrush and wordlessly left the room when the topic of Juliet's lingerie came up-- I felt compelled defend this much:  "it's obvious that she's uncomfortable in her costume, but I assure you I said nothing about it."  Our Nurse, however, regretfully engaged in the costume conversation, whereby Juliet happily twisted her words, turned an A/B conversation into "some people," and now the Nurse and I are the assholes.  I should have fucking gone back to 34th and 34th in Astoria Queens that damn day.  I don't think the director ever fully believed that we were innocent and Juliet was nuts, and my relationship with the stage manager didn't help, so matters were already a little tense when the final incident known as The Most Whacked Out Scenario Of My Life Thus Far took place.
It was Portland, ME.
Below freezing temperatures.
The theatre where we were playing was particularly poorly heated.
I should have fucking gone home two weeks ago when Juliet told that lie about me.
After the show, we'd have to load the set and costumes into our vans and drive 90 minutes back to the Actor Housing, only to rise in time for an 8 A.M. departure.  Here's the breakdown:  Show ends at 10:00, vans loaded up by 11:00, arrive at houses at 12:30, wake between 5:30 and 7:00 A.M. (depending on how much time you need in the morning), depart for next show at 8:00.
It was going to be a bear.
We knew it was going to be a bear.
We did not know that the bear was going to go bloody batshit in the middle of the night, tear our tent to shreds, and crap on our belongings, too.
(This metaphor has more significance than you think.)
* If you want to read the story of what happened that night, you can find it for a limited time only here:  scroll down to my archived blogs.  Click on the month of May.  Click on "The Most Whacked Out Scenario."  Be prepared, it's a little disturbing.
So when I finally returned to NY from Maine, I was not quite myself.  Luckily for me, my younger cousin had moved to NY just as I was leaving for Maine and had sublet my apartment while I was there.  When I came home, I didn't much want to be alone and she was still learning her way around, building enough income to get a place.  With the two of us sharing my studio apartment, I could reduce my work hours by half, have company, and we could both save some money.  It worked out brilliantly.  I had about two and a half months before I would be leaving for my year-long job in Virginia.  Until then, I did not want to work at all.  I was sick a lot of the time.  I went to counseling and yoga.  And in time, I was fine.
Also, I called my future employers at American Shakespeare Center in Staunton, VA.  I said, "I want you to know I am so excited about coming down to work with you... and ... I'd like to talk to you a little about my housing situation."  I even went down for a visit in the Spring.  I saw some shows and saw some apartments.  Everything checked out.  I would definitely have my own room with a lock.  (Click on "Whacked Out" in my May archives.)  And then, a couple weeks after my visit, my future employers called to tell me that another housing opportunity came up.  It was a contained basement apartment that had its own kitchen, bathroom, and entrance.  "Are there locks on the doors?"  "Yes."  I'll take it.
In June, I started packing again.  Some of my furniture was stored in the house of my friend Rob's parents in Rye.  (It is still in their garage today.)  At my going-away party, I laid out boxes and boxes of giveaways that I simply couldn't take with me.  I filled my little Honda (same one that went to L.A.) aaaaaallll the way up, and stored another bunch of boxes and bags one street and one avenue away at my boyfriend's place.  (This can be problematic.  If you think -even for a second- that your relationship may not survive some distance, go to Manhattan Mini Storage.  When the relationship gets rocky, the cost of your 4 x 4 x 5 closet space will be worth your peace of mind.)  My cousin stayed in my apartment on 34th and 34th for another couple of months to see out the lease.  It was sad leaving that place because I really loved the apartment and had worked so hard to afford it.  But, it was time to go.  Occasionally I walk by that apartment and appreciate the unusual windows that look into my old kitchen and bathroom and the unusual year that I spent there.  And now, off to Virginia . . .