SEPTEMBER 3, 2017 | EDINBURGH, UK
For 16 hours, I lived in my dream apartment. Number 19, a good prime number. Right around the street from a coffee shop (I know, because immediately after illegally parking, I hustled into the shop, rolled my suitcase to a corner and power walked to the restroom. Very clean). The door to the complex was heavy and closed with a loud thud. I worried about the neighbors and treaded lightly up the 13 steps. Another prime number. I don't really care this much about numbers, usually.
I don't know how to begin a description of this place except to say I fell in love with Gen's apartment right when I walked in. It exists – love at first sight. and it was magical.
I think my jaw dropped.
Everything from the sage colored walls to the bay windows with original wallpaper, the bookshelves with knick knacks from decades / centuries past – all of it wrenched at my old romantic heart. I glanced at every corner, imagining poses and thinking of where I could place the camera for a time-d photo shoot. After a quick chat with cleaning-gloved Gen, I closed the door and went into zen-mode. No unpacking, not yet – light's good, and my growling stomach can wait.
I'm a fan of props. I've even held some mugs in the past (someone get my reference plz). This place was a haven. Old viewmaster reels. Window boards that revealed original Victorian wallpaper. Photobooks of strangers, now gone with the wind. Leatherbound books holding on to the seams. I'd choose no other spot to play dress up, to dress down, to move around, to chase the sound of a buzzing timer.