I have been coming home to the same Shanghai Alley walls for ten years. The roommates have rotated, but the apartment has stayed the same – almost the same. Ceiling cracks stretch further each year, finding their potential for growth. The floor in the living room has learned to lunge into a resting pose that slants at an increasingly deeper angle. Pipes have burst, carpets have stained, paint has thinned to reveal a previous tenant’s graffiti. Through all these imperfections, even because of them, I’ve loved my home.
But earlier this year, I made the decision to leave. I suddenly acknowledged the need for change – a feeling so large, it magnified every flaw until I couldn’t remember the reasons why I loved living here. It was a relationship gone sour. I needed to get out.
Sooner than expected, I found my dream apartment. And, miraculously, it was granted to me. Clearly, a meant-to-be match. A message declaring, “Yep, you’re onto something. It’s time.”
Now that I know I’m leaving my old friend, my home has become a comfort again. I relish every nuance. I welcome the eastern dawn that scorches my toes each morning, forcing me to get up and out of the furnace that is my room. The giant sun sphere may as well be in the corner of my bedroom, filling all the cracks, lining my dreams with light. As it swivels in the sky, my living room facing west becomes the heart of a fire. I’ve enjoyed many feline-esque naps in that brilliant patch of afternoon sunshine. At night, the last sight I see outside my window spells “Everything is going to be alright.” Neon words that stain my brain across the rooftops of Chinatown.
That apartment has seen me change. I am not the same person as I was in 2005, when I moved in with hand-me-down furniture. There have been confessions and revelations and heartbreak and love, doorstep kisses and roommate laughs and 3am shopping cart wars in the alley. I am saying goodbye to lovers and friends, and their memories that skate on the surface of my eyes every day, revisited without invitation because of the physical space they once occupied in my home.
I am cleansing myself of the past – not a bad history or one I want to banish from memory, but it’s an unavoidable side effect of moving. These reminders and snippets of life float away like a bundle of balloons slipped from my grip. They’re almost prettier disappearing in the sky than stagnant in my grasp.
I’m by no means a hoarder, but clutter easily goes unnoticed when expanded throughout a three bedroom space inhabited only by me. I’m saying farewell to clothes that have gone unworn, glasses and plates gathering dust, papers and papers and papers printed with things like bank statements from 2004 and performance reports from 2007 and leaflets advertising highschool dances in 1998. I’ve tossed bags and boxes of stuff, weight I had no idea was there to shed. Ten years of accumulation. I feel light. Like I could float away with those balloons.
But amongst all this garbage and unnecessary belongings were gems attached to long forgotten memories. I have traveled back in time. A weekend away to a life already lived.
There are photos of childhood friends, ticket stubs (42, to be precise) from the Commodore’s DiscoTronic Tuesday nights, and a collection of journals outlining teenage angst and 20-something strife and the dreams of a 30 year old. There was even a list of all the boys I kissed during the summer of 1999. Nine solid reasons why I came down with mono that fall.
Vampire teeth, a Cheerleader costume, sailor hats, cowboy hats, a blonde wig, handcuffs, Debbie Gibson on cassette tape, 2000 pesetas, 20 francs, 4000 lire, a receipt from Denny’s dated January 1, 1999, five London Oyster cards, expired condoms (so many, it’s embarrassing), four never activated credit cards, and a typed letter from Claire Danes dated summer of 1996. And on and on and on.
One item of treasure that stood out was a photo (taken with an actual camera that used real film!) of a violin-playing busker on the boardwalks of Nice during my 2001 backpacking expedition. After a sequence of events I can’t pull out of my memory banks, he took me for wine and led me through the romantic narrow maze of a small French town. He was not much older than me, half-Moroccan, half-Spanish, and lived in a gypsy caravan by the sea. I remember keeping a Swiss Army knife open in my pocket as we welcomed midnight – just in case. I was only twenty-one – my instincts and intuition were still forming. This memory had completely camouflaged itself in my mind, hidden until now. Scrawled on the back of the photo is his name – Diego.
I’d forgotten how open I was to experience life at that age. Forgotten all these memorable moments I’ve lived that, at some point, became overshadowed by other, more memorable, moments.
This visit to the past was important for me to realize I have lived a beautiful life. It’s not merely a trip down memory lane, it’s a reminder to continue in pursuit of those circumstances that make my heart beat with both excitement and fear.
I tossed what I no longer need to hold on to and packed away the most cherished pieces for re-discovery later in life. I smiled and I laughed and a few tears escaped as I said hello and goodbye. I am a sentimental sap. And I’ll own that until the day I die.<
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