Crossing Manhattan Bridge

A phone call jarred me out of sleep this past July. It was after 9 am. I should have been awake, but the heat of summer in Manhattan and my state of unemployment kept me up late the night before. Late nights are a luxury for the young and the unemployed.

The call was from a guy who had posted a Craig's List ad for a roommate. I remembered the ad immediately. Instead of just asking for queries, the guy wanted to know what you liked to cook. This weeded out the lazy, disorganized and uncreative. Clever, my kind of thinker. Evidently my fried catfish with almonds and jambalaya tempted his interest. He called to be sure I made it to the open house that night. I jotted down the directions to Park Slope and said I'd see him later.

When I got off the 2/3 at Bergen Street, I knew I liked the neighborhood. There were trees and brownstones. And it wasn't so congested as Manhattan. Prospect Park, the Brooklyn Museum, the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library, the Botanic Gardens and Target were nearby. Tempting factors, all of them. But it was the not quite lime, not quite mint color of the walls that sold me on the room. Everyone thought I was crazy for taking a room without a window. "Eh," I thought. "I'm a Southerner. I know all about all kinds of smothering."

And I moved in shortly after the GOP convention. Since then, the lack of window hasn't been a problem. I knew I would always have the view from the Q train while crossing Manhattan Bridge. When I went back to Manhattan that July night, full of excitement for my new home, I listened to Bob Dylan's "Mississippi" and looked out at the Statue of Liberty across the way, lit up with her torch high. Everyday I look out at her, like I did at the statue of Athena in Thomas Great Hall while still a Bryn Mawr student, and remember why I'm still here. This view is exactly what I want.