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Astoria (nostalgia)
Sep. 22nd, 2009 12:22 pmThey always come around September, the memories of Astoria. I'd first moved there at the end of summer in 1992, after graduating from Purchase; I moved in with Keith, one of my best friends from college. Milk crates full of SF paperbacks; a mattress on the floor; learning through Keith about 80s music, a period I'd largely ignored the first time around. My first sojourn in Astoria was a brief one, complete with a stint working as a telemarketer (for the Fred Astaire Dance Studios, of all things), before I headed out on the road with the Big Apple Circus in January.
I came back in January of 1994, and moved in with Lynn, another college friend. A house this time, on 33rd Road; its one small bathroom would become a point of contention during the crowded parties that Lynn would like to throw, but we had fun there. I didn't spend much time in the neighborhood- Lynn and I worked at an entertainment company on Long Island, complete with three-hour commute and ten-to-twelve hour shifts- but I did discover Socrates Park, at the foot on Broadway, with small hammers that would rotate in the wind, and lightly chime against metal panels. I remember sitting there, looking out at the water; Lynn had just told me that I would have to leave (I was going through a crushing period of depression, and my failure to keep up with the rent was becoming a grievous strain upon our friendship), and wondering what would become of me.
In the end, I bumped into a friend from college a couple of days later; he had a sublet that I could move into for six weeks, while I looked for a more permanent situation. Even as I wondered how I would pay for this, I walked into the LGBT Center and happened to discover that they were interviewing for janitors; I remember standing out on 13th Street after the interview, blinking in numb surprise that my life could jump back on the rails, just like that. Lynn and Keith (who had moved in with us by then) and I patched up our friendship; the six-week sublet extended into six years, as my friend Chris decided he liked being out of there; I said that I'd go back to proofreading, and did; the world began to feel a little warmer, as I began putting the pieces of my life back together.
My last Astoria apartment was on 35th Street; I remember getting Lynn, Keith and my friend Winter to help me move, as I was recovering from back surgery at the time. With each successive Astoria residence, I had gotten to know more of the neighborhood; this was, with Kaufman Astoria studios literally across the street, the Museum of the Moving Image roughly three minutes away, and a bar called Tupelo where we spent many a pleasant evening (*sigh* I miss you, Tupelo), easily the most pleasant of my Astoria neighborhood experiences. Late-night burgers at Michael's, after a night of clubbing, then walking home as the sun rose... watching Fellowship of the Ring for the first time at the multiplex a few minutes from my apartment.
When I close my eyes, I think of the apartment itself: blown-glass balls hung on strings, so that they would rotate gently, catching the light and diffusing it around the room. Bookcases- the first time in ten years of NYC life that I'd had actual bookcases. Chester, the cat who converted me into being a cat lover, impatiently head butting me as I typed away at my computer. Perhaps more than any other NYC residence I've had, that place felt like home to me, even though it ended, as residences do (amicably this time, at least); but particularly now, with September upon us, and the Potsdam home a memory... ahh, I do miss it sometimes.
I came back in January of 1994, and moved in with Lynn, another college friend. A house this time, on 33rd Road; its one small bathroom would become a point of contention during the crowded parties that Lynn would like to throw, but we had fun there. I didn't spend much time in the neighborhood- Lynn and I worked at an entertainment company on Long Island, complete with three-hour commute and ten-to-twelve hour shifts- but I did discover Socrates Park, at the foot on Broadway, with small hammers that would rotate in the wind, and lightly chime against metal panels. I remember sitting there, looking out at the water; Lynn had just told me that I would have to leave (I was going through a crushing period of depression, and my failure to keep up with the rent was becoming a grievous strain upon our friendship), and wondering what would become of me.
In the end, I bumped into a friend from college a couple of days later; he had a sublet that I could move into for six weeks, while I looked for a more permanent situation. Even as I wondered how I would pay for this, I walked into the LGBT Center and happened to discover that they were interviewing for janitors; I remember standing out on 13th Street after the interview, blinking in numb surprise that my life could jump back on the rails, just like that. Lynn and Keith (who had moved in with us by then) and I patched up our friendship; the six-week sublet extended into six years, as my friend Chris decided he liked being out of there; I said that I'd go back to proofreading, and did; the world began to feel a little warmer, as I began putting the pieces of my life back together.
My last Astoria apartment was on 35th Street; I remember getting Lynn, Keith and my friend Winter to help me move, as I was recovering from back surgery at the time. With each successive Astoria residence, I had gotten to know more of the neighborhood; this was, with Kaufman Astoria studios literally across the street, the Museum of the Moving Image roughly three minutes away, and a bar called Tupelo where we spent many a pleasant evening (*sigh* I miss you, Tupelo), easily the most pleasant of my Astoria neighborhood experiences. Late-night burgers at Michael's, after a night of clubbing, then walking home as the sun rose... watching Fellowship of the Ring for the first time at the multiplex a few minutes from my apartment.
When I close my eyes, I think of the apartment itself: blown-glass balls hung on strings, so that they would rotate gently, catching the light and diffusing it around the room. Bookcases- the first time in ten years of NYC life that I'd had actual bookcases. Chester, the cat who converted me into being a cat lover, impatiently head butting me as I typed away at my computer. Perhaps more than any other NYC residence I've had, that place felt like home to me, even though it ended, as residences do (amicably this time, at least); but particularly now, with September upon us, and the Potsdam home a memory... ahh, I do miss it sometimes.
