Good morning.
Because of my arthritis, my husband and I decided in the fall of 2007 to put the house on the market and move to a loft, the kind with fifteen foot high ceilings, exposed ductwork, hardwood floors, and old brick walls that made us feel like the hip urban dwellers we surely were not. Dogs were welcome in the complex that was a converted warehouse with plenty of green space nearby, and we thought it would be perfect. It wasn't and not because we weren't hip urban dwellers.
As soon as we moved in, the garbage disposal quit and shortly the dishwasher gave out. Hank, the landlord, replaced the disposal pretty quickly, but it took weeks to the get the dishwasher repaired. Water pressure was also an issue, and we finally purchased a better shower head that somewhat improved the ability to rinse out a shampoo. Laundry was done in a communal room on a different floor, and one of the two dryers was on the fritz. Another tenant said that everyone had complained about it for eighteen months to no avail. I told her we had no closets in the bedrooms and that Hank had promised they'd be built within a week of our moving in. She said it would probably take years before we had our closets and called the man upon whom our well-being currently depended Hank the Phantom Landlord.
We replaced a crummy light fixture with a nice chandelier we could dim with a rheostat, and it improved the atmosphere but had no impact on how the loft actually worked. That, I learned from a friend, was the difference between an interior designer and an interior decorator. Before a designer made the place look nice, he or she made sure that safety concerns were met, that the plumbing, heating, and electrical systems were up to code and the floors and windows were correctly installed. A decorator picked out fabrics, paint colors, and wall paper, and diddled up the space with artwork, pillows, and plants.
We painted the loft from top to bottom, threw down our rugs, and arranged the furniture in cozy conversation groups, but none of it mattered because the place just didn't function properly. Beyond the issues with appliances and closets, there were ventilation problems that allowed odors to drift around the building. If someone was baking an apple pie, the situation was fine, but not so much if the menu upstairs was corned beef and cabbage. We tried cracking the windows but some of them were painted shut and the operational ones had no screens. After a snowy winter and before the daffodils were in bloom, my husband informed Hank the Phantom Landlord that we were vacating the premises and somehow there was no problem with the lease. Arthritis and all, we moved back to the house that hadn't sold. A lot of other tenants also departed; when we left, the complex was more than half empty.
In an effort to console us about our costly misadventure, my daughter remarked over dinner one evening that some people went south for the winter and others went downtown to a loft. Fortunately, the marriage weathered the chaos well, and the dog was happy to be back in a yard with birds and squirrels to amuse her, but she probably missed riding in the elevator because, unlike her predecessor, she liked and still likes riding in anything that goes anywhere. I didn't miss the elevator at all because I'm ridiculously claustrophobic, and when I told my husband that, he said that he would add it to the list he carried around in his pocket.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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