I had a sneaky feeling all along that I overdid it with this apartment.  It wasn't until today, when it took six hour and three (big) people to pack it all up that my suspicion was confirmed.

Three years ago I moved into the first place to call my own.   At first I just wanted two things -- a vogue subscription with my name/address and a yellow Le Creuset.  Somehow I allowed myself to drill 20+ nails into the walls, hanging everything from over priced pottery barn frames, to drawings from Sips and Strokes.  I filled every inch of the tiny kitchen with indispensable tools- two big jars of spatulas and ice cream scoopers.

All this meant that everyday I lived here, it was a place I loved.  A place I was sad to leave on overnight calls and happy to return after long trips.  And as I stood by the door of the now empty rooms, I said a long goodbye and mentally embraced my lovely home.  It's been a good three years and as much as I counted down the days, I'm sad to see it end.