My First Apartment

The view from my parking spot...

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my first apartment in Hawaii. I tried to find photos of it, but couldn’t find any. I asked friends if they had some, but they didn’t either. 

I rented this 300SF space off of University Avenue after a nasty fight with my mom. We were arguing about my decision to get back together with a boyfriend she hated, and her conclusion was: “If you decide to go down this path, then I think you should move out.” That really hurt me, but now I can see why she was frustrated.

Initially, she had suggested that I live with the guy, in the hopes that I’d see how truly awful he was — experience it firsthand. Since he lived with his grandma, that clearly wasn't an option. For the next few days, I scoured the internet for a decent apartment to rent. One fateful night, after refreshing the listing’s page a number of times, a new post appeared; It was exactly midnight. The humble space cost $900 a month, was close to work, and could be available right away. I was sold. I met with the broker the next day and moved in shortly after.

The studio had just enough space for my double bed, and included a decent-sized kitchen and possibly the smallest bathroom you have ever seen. The shower could only fit a single person, and frequently built up with mold due to extremely poor ventilation. My closet was also located in the ultra-tiny bathroom, and what separated it from the rest of the home was merely a foldable closet door with slats (aka zero privacy).

For the most part, however, I was content. I mean, there were times I felt unsafe, sure. My neighbor turned out to be a real weirdo, who would blast his music and video games over his surround-sound speakers at all hours of the night/morning. He'd also fight with his girlfriend frequently and even accused my dad of hitting him with his car once... All of that was fabricated, of course, and I avoided talking to him at all costs. 

It turned out that my mom was right — as she so often is — and I didn’t end up getting back together with that old boyfriend, but decided to stay in my rental anyway. I was enjoying my freedom, even though I could barely pay the rent and utilities, nor afford substantial groceries for myself. For most of my time there, my freezer was stocked with Dino Nuggets and Hot Pockets, and my cabinets filled with packaged ramen.

Honestly, the hardest part about living on my own was that it got really lonely sometimes. Aside from the weekly trips home to do laundry (My apartment complex didn’t have the most efficient laundry system, and the designated area was mostly used by hoodlums to hang out and smoke), there were nights when I’d make the 15-minute drive to my mom’s house. Sometimes it was because my neighbor was being loud again, or the downstairs dog wouldn’t stop barking, but mostly, I just wanted to be around someone and feel safe. 

As I look back on my time there, I don’t associate that season of my life with purely bad memories. Yes, it was sweltering hot at night (again, poor ventilation), the jealousy windows didn't make me feel secure — as anyone could have shattered the slats and crawled into my apartment — and I basically had zero money to do anything, let alone feed myself. BUT, it was mine. I binge-watched so many Netflix shows, was forced to be creative in the kitchen, learned a lot about being independent, and realized a strength I didn’t know I had. This closet of a home was one of the best experiences of my life, and I wouldn’t change that decision for anything. 

You can sort of see my kitchen, and that's the entrance to my "bathroom"

It was also the place where I got to know JP; where we fell in love. We spent a lot of nights talking, sharing and learning about one another. I made the two of us countless Dino Nuggets and unfathomable servings of eggs and rice (Asians will understand) when we would come home tipsy from a night out. And for these reasons, I hold this home so close to my heart. Not to mention, the landlady was an absolute angel. Her name was Barbara (also my mom’s name), and she was an older Chinese woman who was incredibly kind. On holidays, she'd send me hand-written cards, and anytime I had a problem, she’d be happy to help. I really couldn’t have asked for a better situation for my first independent rental. 

I’m happy to be living in a much larger, more secure, well-ventilated apartment here in New York, not to mention, grateful that I’m now able to afford it. But I will always smile when I think of my first apartment in Hawaii, and there are times I wish I could be in it again — even just for a night.