On Saturday, June 14, we made it to our apartment. It's cute. It's small. The floors droop in odd places and the stairs leading to the 4th floor, our floor, slant and you feel the need to hang on to the railing. Hey, but it's home, at least for the next 7 weeks. We've never met our landlord, Dov, but we know he lives just above us on the 5th floor. He is a man of few words. We've e-mailed and text. We talked on the phone once. He has a heavy accent. We hear him (or someone) walking around upstairs. We hijack on his Wi-fi connection because ours is not working. But that is all we know. He is "Dov, the Man of Mystery." Aside from the apartment, the neighborhood is exactly what we were looking for: tree-lined streets, quiet, a neighborhood deli, grocer, florist, and laundry mat. Big plus, Central Park is just a 1/2 block away. Tennis courts are just a short walk into Central Park. Subway station is just at the end of our street. While some things may be a little lopsided, we think it's perfect. It's home.
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