The Apartment on Connecticut Avenue
The door cracked open to a light-filled space, a set of large windows across the way, misty from the autumn rain. The old bones of the timeworn wood floors beneath me wailed as I walked across the room. Towering magnolias just beyond the window, and the hum of a large fountain and street buzz, lent a charming touch. Its allure gripped me like a breath of fresh air, with its white walls, aged details, and glass doorknobs. And the light. Each room perfectly splashed in brightness, even through the gloom of the morning.
Homes come with their own personalities I think, breathing in ways that we come to understand and adjust to through time. I couldn’t wait to make it my own. There’s something about old spaces. Nothing is ever quite right… like the crooked wall, off-centered, the creak in the floors, the stubborn windows, the perpetual battle with dust. A sense of nostalgia and familiarity you don’t quite feel with anything new.
Three years later, I’m perched in the window, splayed out on the perfectly worn cushions of the big chair. Doris Day’s “Again” fills the air. Candles quietly dancing in the breeze and lamps lit in the early evening. I revel in the ambiance. As I look up, an antique crystal chandelier crowns the room. Pillows and blankets are shuffled around the sofa, and among them, a tattered stuffed bunny… evidence of playful interludes. Silver, bowls, burnt candlesticks, matches, sea shells, and books cover the surfaces. Baskets pile up under tables. The collected wares of a cherished space.
I relive the joy of entering the front door to a sea of white and antiques and curtains blowing about. The keys and dog leash find their place on the entry table. Mail piles. Out the window, reflections of my neighbors’ lives offer a frivolous backdrop to daily life here. Seasoned inhabitants with their strong opinions and theatrics. Building gossip. A camaraderie among dog owners. A kinship with the doorman who offers a friendly greeting and goodnight. And close friends made.
I look to the dining room, painted in a perfect green-grey. A slightly askew chandelier, iron, adorned with glass beaded chains and patinated details, imparts a unique charm. A gentle glow of sunlight highlights the imperfections of the old farm table. I think back to intimate dinner parties of shared laughter by candlelight, the table basked in soft linens and fresh flowers, fallen petals and sprinkled crumbs, clinking half-empty wine glasses. In the kitchen, a gentle little lamp lights up the galley. A drawer filled with takeout menus awaits my lazier culinary inclinations. Dinner for one most nights, I hold tight to gatherings with friends and family. Jazzy tunes played often as I whirl around, a spirited cockapoo biting at my feet.
A quick meander down the hallway leads to the bedroom, adorned in a rich brown, a stark contrast to the living room’s pristine creaminess. A sumptuous cloud atop an unmade bed promises a comforting retreat in a few hours. A cushioned chair in the corner serves as a little haven for reading, and a watch tower for Millie to overlook her kingdom. Every nook of this home, loosely curated with storied antiques, collected trinkets, and a calming palette, offers an air of fresh simplicity. It’s easy, it’s quiet. I kick up my feet, I eat in front of the tv, I sleep in on Saturdays. A reprieve from the noise of the world. We breathe as one now—devout in our routines and ceremonies.
Dusk settles in and the courtyard sounds soften. I nestle in deeper, a faithful pup cuddled by. And I think, “How could I ever leave the apartment on Connecticut Avenue?” A worry for another day.
