Okaaaaay. The A train is running local – AGAIN – welcome to weekends in the Heights. Four minutes into my commute to Ainsley’s West Village apartment, I already like the Long Island City apartment that I have yet to lay my brown eyes upon. This weekend construction is getting so out of hand that I am no longer able to gauge how long it will take me to get downtown.
And because I will be underground I have no way to inform Ainsley of my untimely arrival. As one of the few timely desis on planet Earth this would normally irritate me and my precise and exacting standards. But the MTA is one of the things that does not give me an aneurysm. There is nothing I can do about the MTA. They run on their own dysfunctional timeline and program.
Fifty minutes later when I pop out to the street level I go straight to Ainsley’s apartment, ring the bell and get buzzed in. I go to her apartment and knock on the door. Her roommate opens the door and seems puzzled to see me. “Hey, is Ainsley home?” I ask. “I thought you were Ainsley,” Alyssa Melissa (the girl whose names rhyme) says. “Oh?” I ask, thinking is not a good sign. “Yes, she left – like 20 minutes ago,” Alyssa Melissa says. “Thanks,” I say and head back to the elevator. Ugh. I hope Ainsley didn’t think I was blowing her off and has left me. I am 160 blocks from home!
I go outside and my phone rings. “Where are you?” Ainsley asks when I pick-up. “In front of your building. Where are you?” I ask. “We’re around the corner, we got coffee, hurry – we’re late,” Ainsley says. “I know I had train issues,” I reply and speed walk down the street and around the corner. I move fast for a short girl. I get into the car, Ainsley hands me a coffee and her man heads east to Queens. “I’m going to take the 59th Street Bridge,” he says. “Okay,” I, carless on an island, reply.
Once in Long Island City, Ainsley’s boyfriend finds a street parking spot (with ease). “Ladies, note how easy parking is in the outer boroughs,” Padre (Ainsley’s boyfriend says). “Uhm, I am NOT one of those annoying people who thinks life ends at the Hudson and there is nothing but fly over space from here to California,” I reply. Padre, from Middle Village, where one of New York’s biggest marijuana busts just occurred, smiles.
While we wait for a sales agent to meet us, Ainsley and I go to the gourmet grocery store next door and get lattes and breakfast. We get back to the apartment complex and find Padre chatting with the agent. “Here are the girls who may be your tenants – my girlfriend Ainsley and our friend, Desi Girl,” Padre explains. Here’s what is funny, Padre is younger than both Ainsley and me, and he is calling us “girls”. Sigh. I hope Ainsley and Padre get married some day. He is a REALLY nice guy – and obviously I think Ainsley is a great gal.
We get the tour of the building – and I have to say it is amazing. While it is really charming and quaint to live in something built in 1929 – OMG – modern details are OH SO nice. I feel like an architectural sell out. I should not be so easily seduced by stainless steel kitchen appliances; card, not coin, operated laundry; views of Manhattan; and full gym on premises. But I am. What can I say, I like shiny things.