Day 27, Be Brave Project: Hello, My Parqueted Darling.

Absolutely exhausted today. How people function on very little sleep has always been beyond me; in my drinking days it took me a solid 12 hours of recovery time + then a torpid roll in the sack with those devilish twins, diet coke and Big Mac, before I could face the world with any kind of decisiveness.

And I had very little sleep last night.

Yesterday I walked up Columbus Avenue at around 1.30, on my way to meet Rebecca at the Columbus Cafe on 87th street. Columbus Avenue is. . .oh, it's fine. Loads of lovely restaurants with awnings and a single rose on each table; boutique shops whose windows dance with 'back to school' sales; elegant stationary shops and very, very serious organic drycleaners. Yummy mummies shout into cell phones as they one-handedly push expensive strollers up the street, the infants within bald and serious as Churchill in his War Rooms. Shopgirls with piercings beneath lace tops. Shouting tourists heading towards the NYC Historical Society are quickly subdued by reproachful glances from the older ladies of the Upper West Side.

Rebecca was at the cafe already, and within minutes we were at The Building. As she opened the front door, R. unnervingly said, "That's Angie at the desk--she's mean." A moment later she was giving Angie a picture drawn by Maggie, Rebecca's 8 year old child; within the folded drawing there was also a $20 bill. "That's from Maggie's own wallet," R. says . . ."So be sure to have fun spending it!" Angie takes the picture and says she'll put it up on her "Turin Baby" cork board. I am introduced as Rebecca's cousin, and we are in.

Do children tip concierges in NYC? I didn't have the cojones to ask.

The building is modern, built in 1972 after someone decided to raze some beautiful brownstones: It's 18 stories high, and all of the apartments within are duplexes. In the 80's these condos were sold as middle-income housing, with the understanding that they cannot be re-sold until 2012. After 9/11, in some form of anti-terrorism paranoia, it became forbidden to rent the condos. Consequently a very NY situation was born: Condo owners whose families have expanded cannot sell, but also cannot afford not to rent. A loophole is therefore created, in which the building supers and doormen get a lot of $20 bills thrown their way, for turning a blind eye when 'cousins' move into the building.

We took the elevator to the 16th floor, walk down a darkish hallway, and R. opens the apartment door. My first thought was, "Hello Darling!" Parquet floors! A Japanese style room separator between kitchen and living area. The kitchen is small but clean (dishwasher!) The main room downstairs is well-shaped, and has a small marble table and cast-iron chairs. "We can move that, if you like." The windows look North, towards the jagged skyline of Morningside Heights.

But oh my Stars--I fell in love with the bathrooms and the closet spaces. 1 and 1/2 baths, looking like proper clean modern rooms, not worrying damp seep-holes. A full sized bath! Immaculate looking medicine cabinets, and towel racks and hooks and lovely clean clean white tile floor without the cracks and chips mine has. And 4 closets. 4 closets, big bold lovely closets, about which I cannot write with sufficient reverence and enthusiasm.

So. Semi-legal tenancy. In a clean, safe unit. With utilities included. I would save $4300 in a year's rent. And leave my beloved ground-floor tenement style housing with the un-lockable front door: But I'll have to leave here next summer anyway.

I think it's a no-brainer. I'm moving.

And, sadly, I did nothing Brave yesterday--just walked around in a daze.