Our Place

I remember the first time Adrienne and I walked into the empty apartment. I can almost see us there, hand in hand wearing smiles that barely contained our anticipation, both of us eager to move into our first place together. As we walked across the bare hardwood floors, our steps echoed throughout the rooms. The whole apartment had a light colored décor that was instantly warm and welcoming. After viewing the place, we didn't need to say anything, we knew it would be our new home.

Being the travelers we are, we moved in with barely any possessions. Between the two of us, there were a couple of mattresses and some hastily packed boxes of clothes. We didn’t even have to rent a vehicle; a few car trips with some friends quickly moved us in. We didn’t have much, but we couldn’t have been happier. We were quite the unusual pair whose ultimate nightmare wasn’t being homeless, but rather owning a home.

Moving in was quite the commitment in more ways than one. For one, it was our first time living with one another. For both of us, this was our first real relationship. Speaking of commitment, in order to rent our ‘dream apartment’, we had to sign a 6 month lease (which seemed like an eternity to us). Despite our initial hesitation, we signed because we knew that life was going well; Adrienne had gotten the break she needed after months of job searching and had finally landed a new job that paid well. I was still enjoying my job and after being broke for so long in college, I was still getting used to the fact that I had expendable income. We were happy to have our own place together.

Soon after moving in and consolidating what we had, we realized our past reliance on our previous roommates’ kitchenware and furniture. Our place was barren and it remained so for a while; a few months after the last box was unpacked, a visiting friend saw our place for the first time and asked us without a hint of sarcasm, “When do you guys finish moving in?”

One day we finally broke down and decided to ditch the minimalist lifestyle. We finally accepted kitchen and furniture gifts from family and friends. My mom started it off by buying us a dining table. Once she found out that I would accept gifts (albeit reluctantly), she got us a couch and a set of kitchen knives.

Our thinking of what was acceptable to keep slowly shifted with time. When I first moved to San Diego, I was adamant that we had to follow by the “everything has to fit in the backpack” rule. (To be fair, I didn't think we were planning on staying long - we still had a world to explore) It took a while, but that mentality changed to the “everything has to fit in the truck” rule, which then finally took the form of “everything has to fit in the apartment” rule.

Now I’m sitting in the same empty apartment as it was a year ago. The rooms completely cleared, our stuff has been packed into separate boxes, and we’ve had random strangers on craigslist come by every so often to buy our stuff.

I used to wonder why people had such a hard time giving things up. Now I think I understand a little better. It’s not so much that they’re losing their material possessions; it’s more so that they’re losing a souvenir of their memories. The cute dinner table wasn’t so much a finely crafted piece of wood as it was the gift that my mom gave me or the place where I spent cooking countless new recipes.

When I leave this apartment tonight, I won’t take most of the material items with me, but I will take with me the good memories I’ve had here. Since I moved out of my parents place when I was 17, I haven't been to a place that I genuinely felt like it was home. This place was different; Adrienne made it home. And now I feel her slipping away from my life as well.