I remember the first time I saw this apartment. August 1994. I had been looking for about six months, and actually had seen an apartment in the building the first time I went out with a broker.  But Iwasn’t ready to pull the trigger the first time out, and someone else got it.

Then it happened that another apartment in the building came up for sale, which is a little funny considering that there were only four units in the building — a four story townhouse on 82d between Columbus and Central Park West.  This apartment was on the fourth floor, with a roof deck.  Owned by a nice couple, Ben and Susan, with their young child. (As I wrote this, I looked Ben up, he’s still a doctor in Manhattan, actually wrote a book — the scary part is when I think about the young child who was playing when I saw the apartment the first time, who’s probably close to college by now).

One bedroom. One bath. Nice kitchen. Brick walls, wood floors, fireplace.  That’s what I wanted.  The bonus was a spiral staircase from the bedroom going up to a private wood deck that I could already see filled with various friends and potential female acquaintances.  Perfect bachelor pad, I thought. Had an accepted offer three days later, no second thoughts.

But the “bachelor pad” thing didn’t really work out. I met the woman who would later (much later) become my wife four days after I first saw the apartment, spent an hour at dinner sketching out the layout on napkins at a restaurant in Little Italy.  By the time I actually moved into the place in December, we were serious and she was helping me shop for furniture.

Ten years later, as we were thinking about getting a larger place, the joys of 600 square feet in a fourth-floor walkup having slightly faded, we found out that the couple who lived below us were thinking of selling.  We bought their place, combined it with ours, built a proper room on the roof.  Actually created something. An apartment we helped design, one that was unequivocally and indisputably ours. Until now.

So I’ve been in the building since 1994, except for two years in California for school, and six months in the renovation exile in Suma.  A little math — 15 years, minus 2.5 years. That’s almost 5,000 days, over 700 weeks, 162 months.  One and a half Clinton administrations, two Bushes, and a small piece of Obama. Three mayors, four governors, the invention of the internet, the rise of hip-hop, 9/11, a blackout, and a bunch of other stuff. I met my wife the week I saw it, fell in love with her living here, married her 20 blocks away.

The building was very good to me. I will miss her.