关于租房子的英文文章

对于刚毕业参加工作的人来说,租房住已经成为生活的一部分。下面小编为大家整理的关于租房子的英文文章，希望对大家有用!

关于租房子的英文文章

Thirty years ago, I stepped off an Amtrak train into the heat and stench of New York’s Penn Station clutching an oversize trash bag full of my clothes.I had $1, 000—my life savings—tucked into the front pocket of my blue jeans, and a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it in my back pocket: 228 Sullivan St.I had never laid eyes on the apartment in an improbably pink building that I was about to call home for the next three months. My impulsive decision to leave Boston and move to Manhattan came for complicated reasons: a new love affair, the hope of learning how to become a writer and some romantic vision shaped by the Saturday-matinee Doris Day movies of my childhood. Also, like many people who move away from home, I was escaping. A few months earlier, my only sibling, Skip, had died in a household accident and I had spent all the time since futilely trying to comfort my parents. I was 25 years old, and the thought of living in that grief even one minute more was too much for me to imagine. Here, among the piles of trash that lined the street and the smell of falafels and exhaust, I thought I might take refuge.

Heather, the woman subletting the apartment to me, was a dancer, blonde and lithe with Betty-Boop eyes. She was moving across town to live with her on-again, off-again boyfriend. Eager to start her own new life, she showed me the dishes and cups—there were two of each—her coffeepot, which involved boiling water and pouring it through what appeared to be a sock, and all of the other things that made this Heather’s home. I thought longingly of my Mr. Coffee tucked away in storage. Heather gave me a quick tour of the neighborhood—where to buy coffee and a newspaper, where to go for a drink. Then she was gone.I sat on the bed, a door on top of two sawhorses and topped with foam, and wondered what to do next. I grew up in a family that didn’t move. My mother still lives in the house where she was born 81 years ago. All of her siblings lived and died within a five-mile radius of that house. Even though I had lived away, I had never stopped thinking of it as my home, too. But now, alone in a new city in someone else’s home, I felt less tethered, unsure.

The next morning, I made coffee in Heather’s coffee pot and drank it out of her cracked mug. I hung a map of the neighborhood on the refrigerator door with her magnet and wrote lists with her pencils. Soon I could not remember the exact shade of orange on that packed-away comforter. In fact, my old belongings all grew blurry and dull.Eventually, Heather returned and I moved to another sublet, a slightly larger apartment in Chelsea. Outside on 21st Street, Tara handed me the keys, advised me to keep the gate on the window locked so burglars didn’t come up the fire escape and into the apartment. Then she disappeared down the subway steps. Tara had a fondness for Indian prints and incense, and the apartment had a vague hippie feeling to it. Soon, the smell of patchouli that clung to my clothes and hair made me queasy, and I saw that by subletting apartments, I was beginning to understand who I was, what I liked and disliked, how I wanted to shape my own life.

From each sublet—the one in the Ansonia building that smelled of mothballs and had fake Picassos; the East Village walk-up with the bathtub in the kitchen; the Barrow Street two-bedroom with padlocks on the kitchen cupboards—I took a piece of that person’s life and held it up against my own. At night in all of these borrowed beds, my own idea of home started to take shape.Eventually, of course, I got my own apartment, and then left the city and moved into my own house. When I think back to my first night in Manhattan, on the door that served as a bed in that tiny Sullivan Street apartment, I remember how frightened I had been—of the city, of the grief for my dead brother that I had carried there with me, of the new love I thought I’d found. I remembered longing for even one thing that was mine, something I could hold on to through the long night. I didn’t know it all those years ago, but I had come in search of a home. And I had found it on plywood and futons and all the other pieces of lives I borrowed as I, bit by bit, built my future.