I moved to Los Angeles with a friend/roommate. And we shared living quarters for a couple of years. Then his sister moved in with us, and I decided I needed my own place.
So I started apartment hunting.
I ended up in the Fairfax District-ish / West Hollywood-ish area, about two blocks from the corner of Fairfax and Santa Monica Boulevard.
I loved my little apartment. It had a good sized living room, with a teensy little side room; a decent sized bedroom – with a teensy closet and a teensy bathroom, and a ginormous kitchen. God (TIDBI) I loved that kitchen. I even had a back door. I did not, however, have a parking space, which was not a problem at first because I didn’t have a car – my roommate having wrecked my car about a year before.
So not much in the way of storage or places to keep my (always) voluminous wardrobe. But I could have a cat. Which I did – a little all gray short haired muffin-head named Clementine (because she was “Oh my darling”).
I lived a block from where I took voice lessons and from the grocery store. The apartments had no laundry facilities, but there was a large laundromat around the corner on Fountain.
All the comforts of home.
There was a battling lesbian couple living a few doors down. They would get into rip-roaring fights. Periodically, one would punch a hole in their front door. So, entertainment almost at my doorstep.
I really liked that place.
I could actually walk to work. It was a bit of a hike, but not ridiculous. It was a couple of miles (one way), through interesting neighborhoods, and I could do it in about 20 minutes.
My other option was to take the bus; which I hated because it was always crammed full of old ladies going down to May Co. They rode during rush hour because, for reasons unfathomable to me, they liked to stand in front of the department store every morning and wait for the store to open.
And since Fairfax High School was on the route, it was a doubly-packed bus each morning.
It was on this bus that I felt I truly left my Michigan small town girl roots behind me. An old lady was standing in front of the exit door, oblivious to all the people trying to get off, and I finally said, “Move it, you old whore.” She moved it. Not my proudest moment, perhaps, but it sure felt like a rite of passage to becoming a big city kind of gal. And, actually, if I become that old lady (or if I already am that old lady), I hope somebody tells me to move it you old whore should I be blocking ingress or egress to public transportation during rush hour for no particular reason at all.
I was very happy there.
Until one night, I woke up and realized there was somebody lurking outside my bedroom windows (after that, I never would take a first floor apartment). Not just standing. Lurking. Definitely lurking. WTF? My bedroom windows faced the parking area for the apartments and there was no reason for anyone to be hanging out back there. I was so fucking scared. I slipped out of bed, and walked to the window – to the side, where I (hopefully) could not be seen. Then I banged the living hell out of that window. The old wooden window casing made a huge amount of noise – right next to this person’s head.
To say the least, the person took off (hopefully leaving at trail of pee as it was my sincere desire to scare the living piss out of them).
So when my roommate suggested we become roommates again, I agreed. And, that decision, leads directly to my prior post about living on top of the hill.
I just looked at the street-view of where I was living, and at some point, they put up gates – so I am sure that slowed down the lurking behind the buildings. They are even painted the same obnoxious orange-y color! You can’t see my apartment because it’s at the very end of the walkway – but it’s nice to know somethings don’t change – too much.