This apartment and I were meant to be. My dear friend Sebastian, a year earlier, knew that I trolled real estate websites as a soothing pastime when I was getting ready for bed (also while I was at work, and while watching TV, and sometimes after waking up). He sent me the listing, which had only two confusing photos of the space which made it look tiny, and insisted in shouty caps that I HAD TO GO SEE THIS PLACE AND BUY IT. He lived nearby and was in love with the space, but couldn't afford it himself. It was wildly overpriced for its condition, and had no garden like I dreamt of. I told him he was insane.
Cut to a year later, and I was actually looking to buy a one-bedroom fixer-upper. My lovely friend Emily, who happens to be a kick-ass real estate agent, had set up a few viewings for me on my birthday, which was just about the best present I could think of. She had picked two very lovely apartments with roof decks in great areas, neither of which really needed any work. I wasn't hooked. On our third stop of the day, we walked up three flights and opened the door to this coke-fever-dream:
mmmm. trash.
Emily looked around, bewildered and kinda grossed out, and turned to see my face lit up with wonder and joy. Surrounded by fake columns and munchkin ceilings and bathroom tiles that looked like actual, literal barf, I whispered 'oh, little apartment, I can make you so pretty.'
Two months, many legal shenanigans, and a FOUR hour closing later, she was mine.