The first and last time that I had a space of my own was in the winter of 1997 when I moved into a tiny attic apartment in an old palazzo next to a shawarma shop in Florence. I remember the weight of the huge wooden doors –– likely Medieval –– that I walked through everyday for the six months that I lived there. My flat was tiny, with little more than a bed and a canvas futon in the way of furniture and a kitchen so small that only one person could fit in it at a time. I had views of the terracotta rooftops below me and traveled through the building in one of those vintage birdcage elevators. Over time, I added spider plants and vases filled with Mimosa. I put books on shelves and postcards on the walls. I bought a pepper mill and cushions for my futon. By spring, Jason (who I had met on Valentine’s Day) had moved all his clothes into the cupboard beside the pots and pans. It became our apartment. All the many people we met at school and in nightclubs came back to the flat for late night arrabiata and endless games of Rummy. It was the meeting place, and I was happy to host. So many years later, I have rented a tiny attic studio in an old church rectory in downtown Toronto. It’s small and poky with no kiln or proper sink, and it’s kind of perfect. Maybe, mostly, because it’s mine.