A friend of mine posted a piece of Nora Ephron's the day after she passed away last week. I of course have my favorites that she's written over the years, but my friend is the kind of good writer herself that when she posts something, whatever it is, you read it.
This happened to be a piece called "Moving On," which first ran in the The New Yorker in 2006. What unfolded was a story about a particular apartment that Nora had fell completely, unabashedly, wholeheartedly in love with during a particularly trying time in her life, and followed the sad, yet familiar, dramatic arc that sometimes happens when you slowly fall out of love with a place and move out.
For anyone who's ever loved a place that they've lived in, many of these sentences and emotions will strike straight to the heart. From that knowing feeling the moment you've walked into a place, to paying ridiculous amounts of money (that you justify in similarly ridiculous ways) to the slow realization that a place just might not be right for you anymore. I'm experiencing similar feelings about the apartment I've lived in for two years. I love it here, but man, every time summer comes around and the no-central A/C conditions threaten to do me in, I fall a little bit out of love with it.
Have you ever lived in a place that you loved so much that you paid any price (maybe a little more than you could afford)? Have you ever lived in a place that you ignored the "quirks" for a lot longer than you normally would had you not been completely infatuated? Have you ever moved on from an apartment and ever wondered what you were thinking after the lust wore off?