My parents are visiting me in San Francisco for the first time, which means seeing my apartment for the first time. It is with great relief that I can say that they love it, although part of that might be due to lowered expectations. They knew it was 400 square feet, but as my dad said, "We thought it would be half this size, just a bed and a fridge!"
I honestly wasn't sure what they'd think. Though my space is very pretty (wood floors, big windows, beloved treasures), I had a fear that they would say, "We know you're only planning on being in San Francisco for two more months but we're getting you OUT OF THERE." These fears seem silly now, but my building has some flaws, mainly a lack of cleanliness and an abundance of abandoned mattresses in the lobby. A couple of my neighbors are quite rowdy, my street is super loud, and, well, pests are occasionally an unglamorous part of city life.
Thankfully, they didn't seem to notice any of this, and instead asked me to tell the story behind every little object. I also distracted them by pointing out all the things they'd given me over the years: the metal crow from my dad that perches on my bookshelf, Poe-style, the pizza stone used to wrangle displays, the postcards hung as art, the battery-operated candle that melted in the sun.
Perhaps at some point during their visit they'll happen to be here while my neighbors are blasting "Hips Don't Lie" on repeat and slamdancing while endless sirens wail, but as it stands, I like to think they can rest a little easier, thinking of me in my sweet little home way out here on the edge of the country. I'm so glad I got to show it to them.
(Image: Tess Wilson)