The summer after my sophomore year of college, I moved to New York City for the very first time. Even though I'm from Connecticut, I had only visited NYC a few times: one as a young teenager, where I was tricked by a Times Square salesperson into spending $70 on a hairstyling service I never received, and another where I lost my phone and my friends in the middle of Rockefeller Center at Christmas time. Needless to say, New York was not my favorite place.
But, my older brother, who had been living in Hell's Kitchen and working in Brooklyn Heights, had told me that my time spent wandering around tourist attractions was everything except the "real New York." So, when I earned my very first internship in Public Relations at the New York City Triathlon, I was excited to finally discover what this "real New York" was all about.
While still at Holy Cross in Worcester, MA, I found an apartment through my friends' boyfriend-at-the-time's friend. (You probably know where this is going.) With only two photos of the apartment - one of the kitchen, and one of the bunk-bed bedroom - it wasn't until I arrived that early May morning with my parents and two months worth of clothes, that I realized the kitchen and the bedroom were actually the same room. A week later, Clare - a kind-hearted girl who lived across the hall from me freshman year - moved into our "apartment." She got the top bunk, I had the bottom, futon-bunk; we ate our dinners while sitting in our bunkbeds, (we had no room for chairs), and we couldn't cross the kitchen without bumping into one another.
The "kitchen" had half a foot of counter space, two rusty burners, and not one, but two mini fridges. The "closet" was a tall, metal clothing rack with shelves on the side, which nestled nicely between the bunkbed and the kitchen appliances. We did have a television, however, which was conveniently mounted onto the wall. We only had one cockroach, (which, looking back, was not bad at all), but I didn't see this cockroach until it was eye-level with me on the wall, inches from my face, crawling at me with a purpose. To this date, it was the biggest cockroach I had ever seen. I was home alone at this point, and after screaming bloody murder, hoping a kind neighbor would come to my rescue, I realized that even if I was being murdered, it was quite possible no one would come anyway. I had to be brave and deal with it myself. I slipped on my Hunter boots, grabbed a broomstick and slashed it over and over like a sword, killing the poor bug. I slept with the lights on that whole week and bought a caulk gun to seal every crack and line in the apartment.
But, beyond the cracked walls of this illegally-built apartment, I gradually discovered the excitement, the overwhelming thrill, and eventually the beauty of New York. Every morning, I packed my breakfast and my lunch, walked through Madison Square Park to take the N,Q,R up to 57th and 7th Avenue, where I'd walk next to the horses along Central Park South, through the crowded Columbus Circle, and up to my office. My long days as an intern were spent interviewing triathletes over the phone, with the hopes of discovering moving, tear-jerking stories to display on the television broadcast. I also created social media posts and planned two media events: one, a baby-crawling race, the other, a dog race within the NYC Triathlon. When I wasn't talking to inspiring triathletes on the phone or writing bios of racers' dogs, I explored every free event New York had to offer, which was always a great excuse to get out of the apartment.
From accidentally stopping by a Jake Owen concert in Madison Square Park, to waking up at 4am to watch a free Blink-182 concert in Central Park, to volunteering with Back on My Feet, I went to every free festival, street fair, comedy show, book reading, or concert you could think of. I became friends with people from my college who I barely knew, including my roommate Clare, saw the Pride Parade for the first time, took the ferry to the beach in New Jersey, and explored neighborhoods like Williamsburg and the Lower East Side; I made sure to visit my favorite museums on the "free/pay what you wish" nights. In fact, my whole summer in NYC, I didn't buy a single bagel, coffee, or drink, and bought maybe one or two cabs. I was on a very strict budget, as I was saving up for the year I was about to spend in Ireland. Besides my rent and my groceries, which my parents helped me with, I had only spent $250 that summer. (Now, I guiltily spend this amount in a weekend.)
Looking back, I truly don't know how I managed to live in that apartment or on that budget, but it showed me that in this city, you don't need a lot. Rent, of course, is a lot. But once you've got that covered, having a small apartment forced me to go outside, take walks, spend time in the parks, and find unique events. Having a limited budget, I found such enjoyment and beauty in simply walking around neighborhoods, taking notice of the architecture, the people, and the culture.
Now, two internships, two jobs, and three NYC apartments later, I continue to enjoy the city, work long hours in communications at a major media company, and decorate my slightly nicer apartment. It might not be the dream apartment, but it's no doubt, a step in the right direction.
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