It’s been about 8 months since I made the move from my studio apartment in NW DC to a “roomy” 1075-square foot apartment in Arlington Virginia (which I share with a wonderful boy named Dave and a cute cat named Mo…or maybe it’s a cute boy and a wonderful cat…it works either way). The differences have been notable - here are a few important (albeit slightly superficial) examples:
1) I no longer have to deal with a particular type of insect***
2) The elliptical machines and treadmills in the fitness center have individual televisions (with cable!)
3) There is coffee waiting for me in the lobby every morning as I walk to work (a walk which is, by the way, approximately 2 minutes – including an 8 floor elevator ride and not including a car)
4) I don’t have to pay $2.75 a load to do my laundry.
***someday I will be able to talk in more detail about my year-long battle with this hateful, horrible, un-killable, blood-sucking, sleep-depriving, insanity-causing, horrific, nightmare-causing, did I say un-killable?, devil of an insect ….but I haven’t fully recovered yet from the trauma of the entire experience. When I do eventually recover, I assure you that it will make a very, very, very entertaining blog....or horror movie...one of the two.
I needed and wanted the move and, with everything I loved about DC only a short metro ride away, life on this side of the Potomac really has been the best of both worlds.
Still, every now and again I find my mind wandering back to the 36th block of 16th Street and to the building I used to call home – The Woodner Apartments.
It’s hard to define what it is exactly that I loved so much about the Woodner and my time in apt 643. Roughly 5 seconds on apartmentratings.com will pull up about a gazillion reasons why any normal person wouldn’t want to live there. In fact I have picked a few of the more colorful posts, and I quote:
“The Woodner is THE WORST PLACE a person could ever live!! Unless you are practically homeless don’t move here.”
“Living here has made me absolutely miserable.”
“the halls are basically freakshows”
Hmmmm…not exactly glowing reviews…
Do we have here yet another example of Faith falling prey to sentimental attachments that don’t make sense to anyone else?
Quite possibly, yes, but I maintain that there are things about that crazy building to love, most notably the total randomness of the tenants all living in one big building – from the elderly men and women who probably moved in when the building was still considered high living (a LONG time ago), to the neighbors playing mariachi music late, late, late into the night, to the recent college graduates who just needed an apartment in the District that they could actually afford on a Capitol Hill intern budget…and only found one possibility.
Yes, it’s true, very few things about the Woodner in its present state could be considered easy or nice or even (in some people’s eyes) livable, but everyone claiming a 3636 16th Street address is in it together and, if you watch and listen, there are a lot of stories to tell.
In fact, one of my favorite Woodner stories is a story of persistence.
It’s the story of a woman who taught me the importance of fighting for what you believe in,
the importance of standing your ground,
the importance of defending yourself in the face of a society forever working against you.
Well, ok, maybe it's just a story of persistence.
I’m pretty sure she was a fellow tenant because I only ever saw her in the grocery store, which is located on the first floor of the building and is only really accessible to residents, as the guards at the front door never, ever, ever let anyone through without a keycard (say what you will about pest control and management practices, the place was DEFINITELY secure…think Fort Knox). Every single time I saw her over the course of 2 ½ years, she was attempting to return a pack of cigarettes (a pack that had usually been opened and was generally missing at least one cigarette…but often missing 2 or 3). Standing there with her open pack (and usually buying a 40 ounce or two - you know, while she was at the grocery store) she fought and fought and fought and fought, despite growing lines of people behind her and despite the obvious inconsistencies in her story, to convince whoever was running the register that it was her God-given right to exchange the used pack for a new one. Her most common explanation was that the clerk who was on duty when she bought the cigarettes hadn’t handed her the pack she wanted (she smoked the dark blue pack and they consistently gave her the light blue pack). Since this particular shade-of-blue miscommunication seemed to be a frequent issue, you would think she would pay very close attention to the process at the time she was buying the cigarettes, but strangely she never seemed to realized the mix up until she got up to her apartment...and opened the pack...and smoked anywhere from one to three.
In my 2 1/2 years there, she never convinced a single clerk of anything and never got an exchange or any money back. Most often, she debated until the clerk started ignoring her and rang up the next person in line. She would say a few bad words and leave in a huff, swearing to never again step foot in the store – EVER.
So, as nice as my current building is, and as much as I do love having my very own tv (with cable) when I’m running on the treadmill, there are little things missing.
Maybe it’s the free coffee in the morning or the absence of pest issues – whatever it is, the stories here just aren’t as good.
Maybe everyone here just gets the right colored pack of cigarettes the first time.
1) I no longer have to deal with a particular type of insect***
2) The elliptical machines and treadmills in the fitness center have individual televisions (with cable!)
3) There is coffee waiting for me in the lobby every morning as I walk to work (a walk which is, by the way, approximately 2 minutes – including an 8 floor elevator ride and not including a car)
4) I don’t have to pay $2.75 a load to do my laundry.
***someday I will be able to talk in more detail about my year-long battle with this hateful, horrible, un-killable, blood-sucking, sleep-depriving, insanity-causing, horrific, nightmare-causing, did I say un-killable?, devil of an insect ….but I haven’t fully recovered yet from the trauma of the entire experience. When I do eventually recover, I assure you that it will make a very, very, very entertaining blog....or horror movie...one of the two.
I needed and wanted the move and, with everything I loved about DC only a short metro ride away, life on this side of the Potomac really has been the best of both worlds.
Still, every now and again I find my mind wandering back to the 36th block of 16th Street and to the building I used to call home – The Woodner Apartments.
It’s hard to define what it is exactly that I loved so much about the Woodner and my time in apt 643. Roughly 5 seconds on apartmentratings.com will pull up about a gazillion reasons why any normal person wouldn’t want to live there. In fact I have picked a few of the more colorful posts, and I quote:
“The Woodner is THE WORST PLACE a person could ever live!! Unless you are practically homeless don’t move here.”
“Living here has made me absolutely miserable.”
“the halls are basically freakshows”
Hmmmm…not exactly glowing reviews…
Do we have here yet another example of Faith falling prey to sentimental attachments that don’t make sense to anyone else?
Quite possibly, yes, but I maintain that there are things about that crazy building to love, most notably the total randomness of the tenants all living in one big building – from the elderly men and women who probably moved in when the building was still considered high living (a LONG time ago), to the neighbors playing mariachi music late, late, late into the night, to the recent college graduates who just needed an apartment in the District that they could actually afford on a Capitol Hill intern budget…and only found one possibility.
Yes, it’s true, very few things about the Woodner in its present state could be considered easy or nice or even (in some people’s eyes) livable, but everyone claiming a 3636 16th Street address is in it together and, if you watch and listen, there are a lot of stories to tell.
In fact, one of my favorite Woodner stories is a story of persistence.
It’s the story of a woman who taught me the importance of fighting for what you believe in,
the importance of standing your ground,
the importance of defending yourself in the face of a society forever working against you.
Well, ok, maybe it's just a story of persistence.
I’m pretty sure she was a fellow tenant because I only ever saw her in the grocery store, which is located on the first floor of the building and is only really accessible to residents, as the guards at the front door never, ever, ever let anyone through without a keycard (say what you will about pest control and management practices, the place was DEFINITELY secure…think Fort Knox). Every single time I saw her over the course of 2 ½ years, she was attempting to return a pack of cigarettes (a pack that had usually been opened and was generally missing at least one cigarette…but often missing 2 or 3). Standing there with her open pack (and usually buying a 40 ounce or two - you know, while she was at the grocery store) she fought and fought and fought and fought, despite growing lines of people behind her and despite the obvious inconsistencies in her story, to convince whoever was running the register that it was her God-given right to exchange the used pack for a new one. Her most common explanation was that the clerk who was on duty when she bought the cigarettes hadn’t handed her the pack she wanted (she smoked the dark blue pack and they consistently gave her the light blue pack). Since this particular shade-of-blue miscommunication seemed to be a frequent issue, you would think she would pay very close attention to the process at the time she was buying the cigarettes, but strangely she never seemed to realized the mix up until she got up to her apartment...and opened the pack...and smoked anywhere from one to three.
In my 2 1/2 years there, she never convinced a single clerk of anything and never got an exchange or any money back. Most often, she debated until the clerk started ignoring her and rang up the next person in line. She would say a few bad words and leave in a huff, swearing to never again step foot in the store – EVER.
So, as nice as my current building is, and as much as I do love having my very own tv (with cable) when I’m running on the treadmill, there are little things missing.
Maybe it’s the free coffee in the morning or the absence of pest issues – whatever it is, the stories here just aren’t as good.
Maybe everyone here just gets the right colored pack of cigarettes the first time.
You know, this was a good post. The last line, however, made it a great post. You gotta kill 'em with the last line. Perfect.
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