Sent from the public library

Diary of my first week without a computer

I recently sold my laptop and moved to New York. The following is an account of one day during my first week here. Other updates: I’m hosting an event at the Strand on May 23, I was interviewed on NPR and the Brian Lehrer Show, and I wrote an essay about out-of-print books.

Send me a letter! August Lamm, P.O. Box 17, New York, NY 10002

Relieved (and terrified) after selling my laptop

8 a.m. I wake up on the couch at my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn. She’s asleep and there are no doors, so I make breakfast quietly, filling the kettle from the bathroom tap. I need to finish an article but my typewriter, marketed in the 1950s as “silent,” sounds like a can of rocks.

9 a.m. I take the F train to Greenwich Village to hunt for an apartment. On Sullivan Street, I spot the number for a property agency; my call goes to voicemail. There’s a long line for a pop-up bagel shop, which does not bode well for rent prices. On Thompson Street, I stumble across a storefront with a rust-rimmed metal sign: NO FEE APARTMENTS. The office is crammed with desks and file cabinets. The woman says she has nothing under $3,000. She recommends the Upper East Side.

10 a.m. Caffè Reggio is packed as ever. I’m directed to a tiny table by the register, where I have to sit side-saddle. There’s not enough table space for my three notebooks—diary, reporter’s pad, composition book—and my slice of carrot cake. It’s a convivial atmosphere, with one of the lowest laptop-to-human ratios in town. I can almost imagine this is an earlier century, except that one of the servers is watching TikTok on full volume.

12 p.m. The central library branch on Bryant Park is equally busy. I walk from floor to floor in search of an available computer. On the fifth floor I finally spot one. The librarian says it’s reserved for media center usage, i.e. special creative projects.

“Is there a particular software you need?” he asks.

“Microsoft Word?” I venture. Somehow, this is acceptable.

Required reading

12:30 p.m. A woman rushes in from the stairwell screaming, trailed by a police officer. Everyone looks up briefly before returning to their tasks.

1 p.m. I’m almost done editing my article when my keyboard stops working. Technically, computer use is limited to 45 minutes a day. Because I’ve already exceeded my limit, I’m afraid to ask for help. Instead, I use the mouse to copy and paste individual letters. It takes a long time. I email the document to my editor with no message in the body.

2 p.m. The seductive smell of meat fills the air as a patron in the self-help section tucks into a Chik-fil-A feast. I log off and head downstairs, making a quick detour to the non-fiction stacks. I’m looking for a guide to the Public Library system—a list of branches more tranquil, and functional, than this one. My eye is drawn to a coffee table book, The New York Society Library: 250 Years, with photos of wood-paneled rooms, glowing chandeliers, and ancient books on leather-topped tables. Guiltily, I note down the cross-streets.

2:15 p.m. I eat lunch at Whole Foods, pretending I don’t know it’s owned by Amazon.

They're everywhere, once you start looking

3 p.m. Rental advertisements abound in the East 80s. I make a game of it: how many in a single block? My record is three. I call the numbers as I go, and the agents follow-up with their availability via text. Sometimes they send links, which I can’t open on my brick phone. I request viewings anyway. “Looks great!” I’m calling so many places, I occasionally dial the same number twice. “Sorry, Carol. Me again.” At this rate, I’ll be off my friend’s couch in no time.

4 p.m. I stop into the New York Society Library to request a tour. The docent is house-proud, reeling off historical tidbits and pointing out notable artworks. The atmosphere is tranquil, refined, and I’m ashamed of my desire for membership, the way high-earning liberals are ashamed of sending their kids to private school.

It pays to look up once in a while

5 p.m. I head back downtown to a scheduled viewing on the Lower East Side. It’s a tiny studio, a walk-up with little natural light, but it’s well under $3,000. The agent says I’ll need to fill out the application online. I tell him to email me. Hopefully the place is still available the next time I log on.

6 p.m. I take the train to Brooklyn, getting off at Jay Street-MetroTech. I need groceries and I assume there will be a supermarket near the station. I wander around but don’t find one. A holistic health shop will have to do. After debating between bee pollen and biotin, spirulina and super greens, I finally settle on oatmeal, goat’s milk, and pregnancy tea. (I am not pregnant.)

7 p.m. Back at my friend’s apartment, I microwave a bowl of oatmeal for dinner. The goat’s milk gives it a cheesy tang.

7:30 p.m. My friend is still out, so I decide to do some typing while I have the chance. My Smith-Corona is a delight to use. Expertly restored by Gramercy Typewriter Co., it’s probably the nicest object I’ve ever owned. The casing is brown and oddly bulbous, like melting chocolate. I feel a thrill when I get through a paragraph without checking my email.

10 p.m. The couch is shorter than I am, but I always sleep in the fetal position anyway. When my friend arrives, I lament the lack of privacy. I find my brick phone and text the broker to see if the apartment is still available. He confirms that it is. I make a mental note to fill out the application at the library tomorrow. The public one.