The first place I can remember really wanting to move to was New York City. Chalk it up to a Sex and the City obsession. I still curse Carrie Bradshaw for giving me ill-advised career and apartment fantasies. (A writer can afford that apartment in Manhattan? I weep.)
Next, I became obsessed with British stuff. This coincides nicely with my introduction to One Direction, and my subsequent shameful yet passionate stint as a fangirl. Because of my parents, I grew up with a steady diet of British film and television. I worship at the altar of BBC Drama. When I was 19, I visited London, England with two friends of mine. I had a wonderfully rose-coloured experience where we stayed with my friend’s parents, in their disgustingly beautiful apartment in Sloane Square. Apparently J.K. Rowling lived down the road. So, I didn’t experience the reality of living, or even staying, in London, but I knew after that trip I wanted to live there. I’m not completely oblivious. I know it’s one of the most expensive cities in Europe to reside in. However, it is most disheartening to see articles saying things such as, it is now cheaper to live on a cruise ship than to live in London. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
What we can gather from these anecdotes is I’ve always wanted to live in the biggest cities, which also happen to be the most expensive ones. It’s been a long-standing dream to have a sick downtown apartment in [insert big city name here] with my kick-ass job at a fashion magazine. (Boyfriend is negotiable, but hai Tom Hardy.)
I’m holding onto this dream, but I’m not holding my breath. I have a degree in journalism. We are taught disappointment.
Yesterday, though, I took a step towards that vague, probably unattainable dream. I moved to Toronto for an internship.
I’m subletting an apartment above a tiny shop that sells interior accessories with two strangers. My room is small and doesn’t have a closet, but it is a room, with a bed, a shower down the hall and a moveable clothing rack. Honestly, there is little else you need, especially at this point.
The move-in went fine because my dad is the king of moving, or rather, he has lots of experience helping his children move into various questionable yet charming apartments in busy areas of town.
Now, it all really begins. The rest of… whatever. The beginning of the rest of my hypothetical career. The potential close to my on-again-off-again relationship with Kingston.
The room is small, and my makeup is in dollar store bins on the floor, but I love it. The street I’m on is never quiet and there are at least six coffee shops within walking distance. It’s beginning to feel like home. I doubt Carrie Bradshaw would be into it, but it’s definitely good enough for me.