nothing but a memory

so it's been a few days since i've written a legit post. i've gotten lazy. and tired. but i figured since i've been so homey these days, I'd take some time to talk about my childhood home, 2854 Connecticut Ave. #22 NW Washington DC, 20008. Ha! I don't lie when I say I'm from the city. I've lived there for more than half of my life (until i turn 22). Pretty much the greatest place you could ever raise a child. Living in the apartment was the best part of my childhood. This all may have been due to the fact that

a) the zoo was 1/2 a block across the street
b) my cousins lived right next door until i was like, 9 years old
c) school, my parent's work, the playground, the metro, the bus spot, were so incredibly convenient, all we needed was one car and a whole lot of relaxation.

Guess which one I am?!

I'll admit it's a difficult thing to raise a family in a one bedroom apartment. But my parents did everything they could to make it a home, and I still have vivid memories. Walking in, there was a foyer area, large enough to double as a playroom with its open space and fish tank, which housed my beloved fish Charlie, who survived almost five years of weight gain and receiving my admiration. From Sleepys to Crawfish to Snails, there was a little bit of everything in that tank at one point, and I can still hear the sounds of the filters gushing away when my memory recalls it. The first entrance to the left led to the bedroom. Surprisingly large, it contained the two closets from which I would emerge every mid-november, succesful in the hunt for the hidden halloween stashes. (These skills would lead to my childhood nickname of "La Rata", the little mouse that would find any snack or candy anywhere.

The bunk bed my sister and I shared for years was the staple. Like the little rooms we never had, Joyce and I made each bed our own private space, decorated with pictures or lamps or whatever crazy things we could think of personalizing it with. The old desks that remained with us until a few years ago held everything but papers and desks. The room was ever changing. From bunkbeds to separate twins, Miranda's got a pink paintjob and entered the computer age with that big old Hewlett Packard. I wonder where it is now...

The single bathroom to the left was a glorified hallway. Everything about it was old, from the tiles to the sink. But it's where I first learned to brush teeth by myself, where Joyce and I would sit and stare out at the waves of tourists climbing up to the zoo below. I can still recall one of the first times I eased myself sideways to better reach the faucet. We're also guilty of throwing scalding water out the window, when we were very anti-poison Ivy. We were crazy!

The kitchen in any peruvian home is essential homespace. I can still picture my mother standing by the sink or stove, always cooking up some great meal. The curtain leading in was the sole attempt to stop the sounds smells from escaping elsewhere. But there was no denying where the tripe was boiling over, or the stuffed potatoes frying on the pan. Fortunately, the view of the corner was greatest as I climbed onto my step stool and washed some dishes.

The living/dining room was where I avoided so many meals, and where I proudly presented my projects, homeworks and grades. The last great memory I had of it was following the 2002 World Cup, the last few weeks of living there. We were excited to peep out the window immediately after the Final and watch an impromptu parade of Brazilian Washingtonians flashing their flags, honking horns, and blasting their voices and their music with pride.

Similarly, I recall the nights when I, nervous for a Spanish grammar test, would wake up with anxiety and study with the street lights that poured in through the windows, reviewing the verbs that had popped up in my nightmare, and pausing to see the yuppies stumbling back to their apartments below.

April 25, 2000, the afternoon of the shootings at the National Zoo. My sister and I were selecting yogurt flavors at the fridge when we heard a pop pop coming from outside. I can still see the frightened, frantic faces of those who ran for their lives from the zoo. On the night of September 11, 2001, I couldn't sleep. The police were flashing and wailing endlessly down our street. Each light that reflected past my window was another frightened thought in my mind. Other accidents, encounters, arrivals and departures were all witnessed from the views of our 6 windows. We were fortunate enough to live right above the front entrance, and to also have the 2 windows on either side, as well. I look fondly on those windows, and what they showed me and taught me. (Subject of my college essay...)

 

A rare perspective of 2854 for me. We lived on the 2nd floor, right above the entrance.

Now, 'el apartamento' remains only a memory, a past part of our lives. I long to return and live there everytime I pass by, but all things must change, and I must learn to accept that even if I am lucky enough to return, it will be a completely different experience for me. The days of my childhood, growing up in my beloved Woodley Park, are way past me, and planting myself in the spot where my bed once sat will do nothing but let even more time pass me by.