I pictured myself in Inwood, a quiet neighborhood surrounded by parks and families at the northernmost tip of Manhattan. I’d have a sunny one-bedroom apartment, with original Art Deco molding, cluttered with second-hand furniture I’d scavenged off Craigslist and remodeled Shabby-Chic. My living room would be painted Peacock Blue and trimmed with Canary Yellow. It would overlook Inwood Hill Park, or Fort Tryon, and on light days, I’d explore the Cloisters nearby. I wouldn’t mind traveling all over Manhattan via the A train or the 1 train, knowing that I had somewhere quiet to come home to after a bustling evening out of doors. I’d live above a struggling saxophone player, and below an underpaid Opera singer. Inwood was the place you lived if you were an artist who didn’t care about status, or living in the trendiest neighborhood of the five boroughs. Inwood was where you lived just so you could get by.
