I just finished reading Julie and Julia, and you know that part at the end of the book when she finishes her project and she’s so emotional she begins to cry but then laughs?  That was me today, 6 times exactly, as I cleaned and packed up all the things in my apartment, one day closer to moving to a different place and starting yet another chapter in my life.  It was like my own project of two years: My First Apartment.  I cried because I’m sad to leave the place that made me feel like such an adult, and where one of the best friendships began.  I laughed because I’ve created so many great memories here;  I’ve danced here more than anywhere else, I’ve laughed till I cried, I drank till I forgot about the things that overwhelmed me, and I cooked more meals than I can remember.

Whilst taking down the photos on my wall, I let tears flow as I thought about my favorite memories in this apartment.  How can I forget having to pay two guys to help Christina and I move all of our crap from our old place?  Or seeing our landlady’s face as we moved her furniture around, so we could fit our big red couch into the living room? I made Christina print out her favorite photos so we could make a photo wall right behind it.  Even though it made me feel like a creep with a shrine, I kept her photos there even after she left, because no matter how many people come or go after us, it’ll always be OUR apartment.  I’m thinking about leaving some photos of us hidden all over it, just to mark our territory. Kidding…but not really.

Anyway, maybe you guys have some tips on how to properly say goodbye to a place you’ve called home for so long.  The last couple of weeks I’ve had tons of dinner parties, I’ve danced all over the apartment, and I’ve spent more time on my terrace. I thought it was the right thing to do, but I still feel like I have to do one more thing before I leave it.  Perhaps it’s this? Drinking an entire bottle of wine to myself, crying, and writing one last blogpost in this apartment?  I’m not sure, but I’m gonna drink some margaritas my last weekend.  So I leave you with this, a short love letter to my apartment, because it deserves nothing less:

To the bedroom that became my sanctuary; the place where I spent endless nights studying, watching movies, writing, and occasionally cuddling someone special.  To the hallway where Christina and I recorded a damn Italian version of Adele’s “Hello” for a project, laughing so hard that it took us 6 hours to do a 2 minute recording (hallway, because it’s the only place where we wouldn’t make our neighbors’ ears bleed).  To the living room that I didn’t enjoy enough and the couch that I recently enjoyed too much; I spilled a margarita on it and now my spirit will forever remain in it. To the terrace where the plants I learned to water and love reside, where I spent some mornings reading and having coffee, and where I had countless lunches & dinners. And last but DEFINITELY not least, to the kitchen that inspired new recipes, became my form of therapy,  and brought so many of my favorite people together. This entire apartment was home to Mexican dinners, margarita parties, drunken nights, and a place where relationships began or flowered.  It’s where I grew up in two years, where I drank far too much and studied way too little.  So all I can say now is that I’m grateful for the freedom it made me feel, for the unforgettable moments, and for the extra pounds on my tummy that I like to call happiness.

P.S. If you don’t write a love letter to your first apartment, you really need to get your life together. Or do I need to get my emotions in order?

Love Always,

The Wandersluster