Domicile

I was in a bit of a rush to pick an apartment because reasons. I checked out an order of magnitude fewer places than some of my coworkers did before picking one. I quickly opted for a serviced apartment in cosmopolitan Xintiandi rather than a funky lane house in the hip French Concession. It met my major criteria:

• Small enough to discourage guests.
• Nice enough to feel homey.
• Not so nice that I wouldn’t want to get out and see the world.

But lately, I’ve been starting to question my choice. Was I basically living in a hotel, far from an authentic Chinese experience? The only thing that I was sure I liked was that the lobby smells like a pretty girl.

On Sunday, my “air shipment” arrived. Got my guitar. Books. Framed pictures of loved ones. DVDs. Waiter’s corkscrew. I spent last evening putting things away.Yes, my bookshelves are woefully anemic, but every volume was agonized over and carefully chosen at the expense of its dozens of siblings. (Fucking Sophie’s Choice.) These are David’s books. Unambiguously.

Even the kitchen started to feel like David’s kitchen.The bedroom is nice, with big, David-sized windows facing south.Granted, the bathroom is like a hotel. But that’s just people-talk for “nicer than I’m used to.”I even have a small room with a washer/dryer which is spacious enough for storage.All that to say, I’m starting to feel at home.