A Place for the Things I Had Collected
On furnishing a house I did not own, and the arithmetic of staying versus leaving
On furnishing a house I did not own, and the arithmetic of staying versus leaving
Walking South of Broad, I began furnishing a house I did not own.
Charleston was beautiful. That much was obvious. The houses were magnificent, and street after street seemed to offer another one. But somewhere along those walks, admiration became unusually specific. I imagined living there, driving a Range Rover, visiting the galleries, flying back to New York. I imagined a house large enough that my family could come and stay for a month. I imagined displaying the things I had collected.
I had come to Charleston and rented an apartment for nearly a month. Because the address was residential, the driver who picked me up at the airport first assumed I lived there. I explained that I did not, exactly. I was moving into the apartment, but only for July.
The apartment was outside the part of Charleston most visitors come to see. I unpacked, put my things away, and started walking. On the first day, I went down King Street, stopped at Chipotle because I was hungry, took photographs, and kept going. I made it down to the Battery and then worked my way back toward the Pineapple Fountain. By the time I returned to the apartment, I had sweated through my shirt and shorts.
The Pineapple Fountain, Waterfront Park · Charleston, South Carolina (Michael Holland)
Over the next few weeks, the distances began to connect. I walked down Church Street and along Water Street. I stopped at Off Track Ice Cream on Beaufain Street many times. I visited art galleries in the French Quarter, went to RiverDogs games at Joseph P. Riley Jr. Park, and tried acupuncture for the first time at The Healing Gallery on Queen Street. There were streets I returned to because I wanted to see them again and others that became familiar simply because they were on the way somewhere else.
The Healing Gallery, and Off Track Ice Cream on Beaufain Street · Charleston, South Carolina (Michael Holland)
There were also groceries.
The nearest Harris Teeter was far enough away that I usually took an Uber, especially on the way back with bags. I joined the loyalty program. In the small kitchen, I cooked beans and made a simple stew so I would not spend too much money eating out. The laundry machines were shared with the other apartments. When I needed a better place to work, I went to the Charleston County Public Library on Calhoun Street.
And somewhere in all of this, I had begun to imagine staying.
I could picture mornings walking those same streets without photographing every house. I could picture going to the galleries because I wanted to see what was new. I could picture getting more ice cream on Beaufain Street, going down to the water, working at the library, buying groceries and driving them home. I could picture my family visiting and having somewhere for them to sleep. I could picture the objects I had carried from place to place finally sitting on shelves.
The fantasy was expensive. There was no clean separation between desire and arithmetic. The house was part of the calculation.
But so was leaving.
Even as I imagined rooms and shelves and a front door, I still wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago. I wanted Porto and Barcelona. Seoul and Osaka. I could imagine staying in Charleston and still imagine everything beyond it.
One of the houses South of Broad, lit up at dusk · Charleston, South Carolina (Michael Holland)
On my last Sunday morning, I went back toward the Battery and White Point Garden. It had been cooler when I left the apartment and was beginning to warm. I walked beneath the trees and past the houses. There was the water. The galleries. The streets I had spent the month learning. The life I had briefly allowed myself to imagine.
At some point, I knew, I would settle down.
Just not yet.