an irresistible charm

In her essay, "Moving On,"* Nora Ephron describes her love affair with her New York City apartment. It was an old building, with more problems than pleasures, but it had character, a certain charm that she couldn't help falling for.

When I first read the essay about a year and half ago, I wondered if I'd ever be privileged to live somewhere that I found enchanting. At the time, we were living in a cookie-cutter apartment which had been built in the late '70s that was livable, but which had no personality.

I couldn't have imagined then that one day soon I, too, would be living in an old (we're told this building is World War II-era) New York City walk-up apartment, one with perhaps more problems than pleasures, but one which has a charm I have found myself falling helplessly for.

Want in on some of the enchantment?


This is the door into our living room. We never close this door, but I love that it's there all the same. I love the paned glass. I love the glass doorknob. And I love the skeleton key hole.


This is a view of our crooked ceiling as seen from the living room couch. I love how it bends. None of the walls in this apartment are straight, and as we hung curtains, we seriously questioned whether or not levels were used during the construction of any part of this place. But how many of you live in homes with crooked walls? Isn't it charming?


We are blessed in this apartment to have windows on three sides. Each room has two tall, narrow windows, with the exception of the bathroom, which only has one smaller window. Such a contrast to our former apartments, each of which only had two windows in the entire place. I'm also head over heels in love with our fire escape access. I've always found a spark of romance in the idea of a city fire escape window, and no matter how dirty or how crowded the view from it is, you cannot convince me otherwise.


Do you appreciate a good doorknob as much as I do? These old things are littered throughout our place: in doorways and closets. Sure, they're paint splattered, and sometimes they get stuck, but where would the charm be if they weren't this way?


Even though they've been the cause of a few bumps and bruises, I still love our hardwood floors. By all accounts, these are the original floors, and, despite the creaks and cracks, I love the character they are crawling with. I have an idea that these floors have been loved by more than just me, else why, after 60 years, would be still be in such good condition?

There are other things I love about our home. I love our bathroom. It's itty bitty, and there's really no storage space in it to speak of, but it has a tiled bathtub, a window sill that, so long as I maintain it, is fairly resistant to mildew, and it has the best shower head I've ever been lucky enough to wash myself under.

I love our kitchen, which is also small (we can't open the fridge and sit at the table simultaneously), but which is so naturally well-lit, it's hard not to want to cook in there (on a lovely and updated gas stove, no less). Sure there's no dishwasher or even a garbage disposal, and yes, the high chair has to be stored in the entryway when not in use, but the floors are nicely tiled and I wouldn't hesitate to call this the best kitchen I've ever had.

I love the radiators. They're not the prettiest accents in each room, but there's something to be said for the history of the building that they represent. They sometimes heat too well, requiring us to open windows on bitter February nights, but the crackling sound they make in the winter is surprisingly comforting.

I know that someday we'll have to leave this place, that we'll have to move on. And despite its inevitable necessity, I dread that day. Because this isn't just where I live. The roots we put down a few months ago when we moved in have lovingly wiggled their way into the walls, and will eventually grow so deep that we, like I imagine former residents have also done, will have to tear ourselves from them and leave a part of us to linger forever after. It will be hard, but true love wasn't meant to be easy.



*for an abstract, see here. To read the entire essay, either track down a copy of the New Yorker from June 5, 2006, or get your hands on a copy of Ephron's book I Feel Bad About My Neck.