I never liked our first apartment—chosen in a flurry at the peak of the real estate boom. When I walked in, I could immediately picture the developer who thought that new arrivals would pay for a gray box with plastic-slatted shades and particle board cabinets. And we did. It was a fake house, for fake people. I had a suspicion the doorknob was plastic painted silver. Tasteless. Interloper. Transient. Whoever built this place had made a bet that Brickell would continue to gentrify outward, and put their stake in the ground a few hundred feet out from downtown. I sensed it hadn’t quite worked out. Our nearest neighbors were a gas station and another half-empty apartment building.
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