March 31, 2005
Downtown Dweller
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Moving downtown several years ago, I felt a confident swivel in my hip decision. Most of my friends lived on the northside, predominantly Broad Ripple, and many had even gotten married and moved to Carmel. “Egad”, said I, “where’s the fun in that?” A story in the Star recently touted the growth and merits of downtown Indy living, a fact I don’t contest. There’s a halcyon appeal to living downtown, less traffic, and plenty of posh houses and condos from which to choose. A lot of my downtown friends prefer living on the canal, where joggers run past sputtering loud, allusive conversations beginning at the crack of sparrow, and ducks quack at the most unreasonable hours. I chose my downtown dwelling east of Meridian Street, moving into a “charming” old building.

My place isn’t luxurious, but I marvel at its amenities: street parking; occasionally rusty water pipes; ill-fitting screens (or windows that simply won’t open); a garbage truck that startles me twice a week; and deep wooden windowsills where 30% of my books fit. In a word: heaven. It is a place in which to store my belongings, pick up mail and sleep, a flat that doubles as a home when I’m there—a rarity in itself.

The benefits of living in a small downtown apartment are numerous. Outstretched across the kitchen, as if scaling the ledge of a tall building, I’m able to start the teapot on the stove while still holding the whirring hairdryer plugged-in in the bathroom. This saves a lot of time getting ready for work. Show me a house in Carmel where you can do that!

One chilly morning, around 2:00 a.m., in fact, someone outside chose the wrong door buzzer to ring, mine, and it stuck. Awakened by the raucous alarm I jumped, fully clothed, thankfully, and rushed out my door to “please just make it stop!” It didn’t take long to pry the lodged square from its metal casing, and to realize I was now locked out and standing in my pajamas on the sidewalk. I pushed every neighbor’s door buzzer, equaling many, which is probably what the person before me had done. Finally, a groggy and confused gentleman ambled down the steps inside and allowed me passage into the building. So what if I was in shorts and a T-shirt—he seemed more than happy to help. Would a complete stranger let you back into your own house in, say, the Village of West Clay? I think not. So convenient is downtown living.