It Began With a Hurricane
Budget hotels, Craigslist rats, and the long way into a dream
A few nights ago at a dinner party, the conversation drifted toward strange neighbors and the odd jobs we’ve had in our past lives. My friends had gathered a handful of people with varying degrees of closeness and familiarity, but a shared creative frequency: three painters, a photographer, a decorator-gardener-antique dealer, a writer. There was the gentle hum of people who have chosen, again and again, slightly impractical lives.
At some point, someone told a story about their tube-top-wearing, snake-handling neighbor in Manhattan. It was cinematic. It was absurd. It was perfect. And while I would never steal someone else’s snake-handler anecdote, it did remind me that my own early New York era was less triumphant origin story and more extended character study in delusion.
It began with a hurricane.
The longer story is still in the works, but the shorter version starts with Hurricane Irma. At the time, Irma was considered the most powerful hurricane on record in the open Atlantic. As I secured plywood to my windows, preparing to spend who-knows-how-many days in darkness, the idea of finally leaving home again expanded rapidly.
The night my friend and roommate called out from his flooded bedroom, and we spent hours taking turns scooping water into the toilet and tub, the idea to leave became the only thing I could hear. Within a few weeks, I had sold anything too large to fit in a minivan. I set off the day before Friday the 13th with a packed car and my cat, Ollie.
We drove all day until we reached Maryland, where my parents were living at the time. I unloaded my meager but precious belongings into a storage unit in their parking garage on Friday. On Saturday, I packed a suitcase, said goodbye—for now—to Ollie, and boarded a bus to New York City. By evening, I was in my sublet in Brooklyn, celebrating my big move with a slice of chocolate cake.
The sublet where I’d start belonged to a friend from my hometown. She’d moved a year earlier and happened to be on tour, so the timing felt perfect: an easy landing spot while I found something permanent. There had been some warnings about the roommate, but he was another hometown connection, so I assumed I could handle whatever his personality entailed.
Very quickly, I could not.
Or rather, I was having a disastrous time in New York, and the yapping chihuahua, its pee pad, and the copious baby-powder-scented incense burning in the living room were not helping. The roommate and I kept opposite hours, which meant plenty of introverting space. But when we did cross paths, I felt wildly out of my element. He was always experimenting with his appearance in ways designed to frighten, repulse, or intrigue: blacking out his front teeth with theatrical wax, shaving sections of his eyebrows and dyeing the remaining parts in different colors. In another season of my life, I might have found this fun—an entry point for connection—but I was becoming more fragile by the day.
I had moved to New York because a) it was my lifelong dream and b) I had spent the previous six months (remotely) interning for a prominent New York publication that had a job opening. My bosses had encouraged me to apply. They told me it was essentially the role I was already performing. I interviewed with HR. I discussed salary and benefits. I more or less thought I had the job. They knew I had packed up my life and was on my way. They had expressed enthusiasm.
On the Monday after I arrived, I emailed my boss: “I am here!” Silence. A few days later, I followed up. By the end of the week, I received an email saying they had hired someone else and no longer needed me as an intern.
I was gutted. I was shocked. But I wasn’t ready to let my dream collapse entirely. I figured I could find another job in the meantime. Or at least another place to live—preferably one without all the baby-powder smoke.
As I began apartment hunting, every prospective roommate frowned when I explained where I worked (nowhere) and what I was doing (trying). I was frantic and lonely and sad. I wandered and walked and tried to keep my spirit afloat while feeling deeply confused.
Not even a month later, I packed up my suitcase and took the bus back to my parents’ place.
During that stretch, I hit a staggeringly low point. I had failed. And how quickly! I slept as much as possible. To kill the waking hours, I went to the apartment building’s gym and worked out, often crying on the elliptical. Some days I wandered the mall across the street. Other days I took the longer walk to the grocery store beyond the mall and wandered there instead.
I started browsing Craigslist for odd jobs. I came this close to calling about a “rat abatement specialist” listing, where you were assigned a dog and sent to wander the back sides of malls and stores catching and killing rats. I figured I was already wandering those areas—might as well have a canine companion and a little income. It felt, at the time, like a perfectly reasonable pivot.
Luckily, before I veered further into that particular timeline, I was offered a job. And it was for another New York publication. I had made a connection during my last few days in the city, and they were finally getting back to me. They wanted me in the office—in One World Trade—Tuesday through Thursday. I had no idea how I would make it work, but I said yes. I was so relieved to say yes.
After being spooked by Living and Working in New York City: Part I, I wasn’t ready for a lot of commitment. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t ready to come up with a slightly bonkers plan. The idea: take the bus into the city every Monday (a 3.5-hour ride, longer with traffic), book the cheapest hotel or Airbnb I could find for the week (ideally $100 or less per night), and bus back to my parents’ place Thursday evening or Friday morning.
The first hotel, in Chinatown, made me uneasy. On the 11th floor, I wondered if my things were safe when I left for the day. The room was mostly bed, flooded with neon light from nearby signs and billboards. But really, I didn’t mind. I had a job in New York City!
The next week, I found a newly opened hotel in the Flatiron District offering special rates for their solo traveler rooms. The twin bed, the whimsical paintings—11th floor again—the freshness of everything felt infinitely better. I even felt excited.
I didn’t tell my new colleagues about my living arrangement in the beginning. One day in the kitchen area, the editor-in-chief glanced at my boots and said, “Nice, but not really seasonally appropriate.” I wanted to scream, THESE ARE THE ONLY SHOES I HAVE BECAUSE I AM LIVING OUT OF A TINY SUITCASE I SCHLEP EVERYWHERE. I probably just nodded. (Years later he resigned after being both an asshole and racist, so there is that.)
The third week back at my favorite hotel, the room already felt dingy. The hot water didn’t work. The solo rate had increased. I was exhausted.
The fourth week, I tried two new variables: Airbnb and a two-week stay.
The Brooklyn place seemed cute and clean. The tenant was leaving town. We met; he handed me the key. What the listing did not disclose was that this was a room in a two-bedroom apartment, not the one-bedroom I had imagined. And there was another chihuahua. The woman in the other room seemed irritated that I existed. I felt too non-confrontational to push back about the listing discrepancy. One evening, while getting ready for bed, I became stuck in the bathroom. No phone. I panicked. Then I started dismantling the doorknob with tweezers and whatever else I could find. I freed myself after twenty minutes.
I did not want to keep doing this.
Eventually, I found a listing on Facebook Marketplace for a place in Morningside Heights. It felt impossibly far—one street from the line that marks Harlem—but the apartment looked beautiful. Plants everywhere. Midcentury furniture. Intriguing art. My own bedroom and even a bonus office.
It seemed worth checking out.
I arrived on a charming street near Riverside Park and felt instantly taken. When the door opened, it was relief and adoration at first sight. We both exclaimed over each other’s sweatshirts. We were practically dressed alike: black boots, light-wash jeans, vintage blue-teal sweatshirts. He asked if I wanted to see his collection of vintage sweatshirts.
I followed him down the long hallway, admiring every corner and every room, certain this was where my New York life would begin—unaware that it had already begun, in those budget hotel rooms, in borrowed beds, in the quiet humiliation of trying again.
