It is a hot Saturday.
Yesterday, Mr. Squire installed our window unit AC in the bedroom, but by the time we went to sleep at 10:30, it was only 77 degrees outside, so we didn't run it, and instead stuck with the fan and assumed a very still, splayed-out form on the bed. I slept well, had bizarre dreams about being guilted into attending a Campus Crusade conference when all I really wanted to do was take advantage of one last opportunity to go snorkeling (they even went so far as to install a machine in my arm that spewed out guilt-inducing threats!), and woke up hot.
Our apartment, a tenement house built for the working poor in 1890, is humble in its 400-square-foot glory, but features five glorious windows (two in the kitchen, one in the living space, two in the bedroom) that together allow for a decent cross-breeze during the summer. We keep two windows (one in the kitchen, one in the bedroom) open all year round. Today we opened two others to let the breeze through. Still, I am sweating.
To make matters worse, of course, we did our cooking for the week this morning on our gas stove: I cooked nine (yes, nine) pounds of zucchini, and Mr. Squire cooked a chicken/water chestnut/bamboo/baby corn stir-fry that my dad taught him last time we were home. We have exactly one square foot of counter space in our galley kitchen (which itself measures approximately 20 square feet), so we had to take turns cooking and cutting and doing our thing. Finally, by 11am, we were done, though. And I was hot.
I'm still hot. I went to the gym and had a very nice workout, and then walked the half-mile back home, half-shamedly sporting gigantic sweat spots on my grey t-shirt. (Note to self: when doing such a long workout, wear your one dry-fit shirt!) I'm looking forward to a shower.
It's hot, and it's mundane. Have I bored you yet? I have kind of bored myself...but not really. It is June 2013. If all goes according to plan, the Squires will be moving away from Brooklyn in one year, and we will then assume a different kind of life in New Jersey. We haven't even left our home here in Brooklyn Heights, but I miss it already, knowing that we won't be here all that much longer. Thankfully, I've always known that our time here would be limited, so I haven't taken it for granted. Three years of life here is a tremendous blessing. I love nearly everything about this place; it is simple, old-fashioned, neighborhoody (particularly since we actually know so many of our neighbors), quaint, and gorgeous.
It appeals to all the senses: the birds chirping in the trees, the fact that you can clearly hear the sound of your own footsteps as you pad up and down the way. The smell of coffee and donuts emanating that old corner store at Henry and State, the aromas wafting down the Middle Eastern corridor on Atlantic. The taste of lamb cooked in a four-foot hole at the Yemeni restaurant, and the pillowy texture of the ginormous flatbread that comes with it. The dizzying array of baklava--in all shapes, flavors, and sizes--at the Syrian shop. The hot and crisp falafel served up for $3.80 a sandwich at Jamal's Tunisian hole-in-the-wall on Henry Street (and a special soft spot in my heart for Jamal, who used to give me a 25-cent discount on my hummus sandwich back in 2006 when I was a student living in Brooklyn Heights). And people's gardens: their perfectly manicured flower boxes in front of gigantic picture windows. The elephant ears. The banana trees. The incredible rose vines and vegetation in the community garden next door. The flowering quince (see earlier post) crawling all over an iron fence every spring. The tall mimosa tree that blooms all summer long. The garden shop run out of someone's home on Joralemon. The cobble-stoned street that leads to home, and all of the incredibleness of Brooklyn Bridge Park, just a stone's throw away. The beautifully dressed doors and entryways during the holidays. Everything is so lovely. All of Brooklyn Heights is a historical landmark, so...it can't really be tinkered with all that much, so it has preserved much of its yesteryear atmosphere. There are still a number of big lampposts that feature gas-lit flames all year long. I love it.
And we love our neighbors: Salah, who owns the Iris Cafe. Jizlan and Fudla in the Moroccan laundromat. Our favorite apartment neighbors--Calvin and Lisette, and their adorable children, Elijah and Zuri (whom they somehow manage to raise in an identical, 400-square-foot apartment!). Sam and Penny (though I'm not such a fan of Penny the dog).
The Lord has richly blessed our first couple years of marriage, not only in our relationship, but also in our surroundings. I will be sad to leave this place, but so so thankful for our time here. I'll miss these hot Saturdays, these early days in our marriage when we didn't have much in the way of worldly comfort by this City's crazy standards--but we had everything in the world that mattered.
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