Here's the story: a wealthy, elderly single woman wants to sell her million-dollar luxury condo. She puts it on the market for a while, but since the housing market is going into the tank, she doesn't get what she wants for it. So she puts it on Craigslist -- or, more accurately, her realtor puts it on Craigslist -- in the hope that someone will rent it. Her plan is to rent it out for a year, then come back and sell it. From what we can tell, neither she nor the realtor has ever rented before. These are people with multiples of millions in the bank; why should they ever have experience renting a place? They own!

And in we step, into the Park Bellevue Tower, an exorbitant name for an equally exorbitant place. We found the place online and, as far as we can tell, we were the only people who called to inquire about it. The realtor -- who is the building's realtor -- didn't put any pictures on the Craigslist posting. To those who know how Craigslist works, this is a capital offense, as posts without pictures don't get looked at.

The Park Bellevue Tower (or PBT to those for whom living there constitutes normalcy) is a twenty-five story luxury condominium tower on the shore of Lake Merritt. Lake Merritt is a large-ish inland lake on the west side of Oakland (but it's not in West Oakland!). The lake is close to several neighborhoods that contain a lot of interesting things to see and do, and places to eat: Lake Merritt, which contains those things immediately around the north shore of the lake; Grand Lake, home of the Grand Lake Theatre; Lakeshore, where a new Trader Joe's just opened up; Park Ave., the location of another cool movie theatre, the Parkway Speakeasy; and Downtown, which is just what it sounds like it is. The good part about living where we live is that we are within walking distance of a lot of things. Emeryville just wasn't a walking town. Certainly it was possible to walk to places like Trader Joe's or Bay Street, but the city wasn't designed for it.

Our apartment is quite large, with marble-looking floors in the halls, kitchen, and bathrooms and hardwood floors in the bedrooms. Hardwood floors always sound like a draw when you're looking for a new home. They don't get as disgusting as carpet can, they look nice, and they're easy to clean. They're also easy to scratch. Living with hardwood floors requires that you cover with a rug the areas occupied by your furniture. After all, you wouldn't want to scratch those floors. By the time you're done covering everything up, you don't get to see your hardwood floors because they're covered with rugs. The hardwood floor then becomes no better than an Old Masters painting you keep locked up in a safe. It's a thing you have, not a thing you enjoy. It's hard to enjoy a hardwood floor, especially when people are constantly becoming anxious about scratches. Normally, I wouldn't worry about scratches (after all, it's a freaking floor, and scratches are going to happen -- you may as well become uptight about your luggage getting scratches), but this isn't our house, and the security deposit looms like a thundercloud over the hardwood floor.

Ultimately, I had qualms about living here. I still do. It's not the kind of place I would have looked at, nor is it the kind of place I would have moved into on my own. The "luxury condo tower" is not my kind of place. I don't like having to take an elevator eighteen floors up and down (even though we're on floor 19, there's no floor 13 out of superstition). I don't like being greeted by a friendly doorman every day. He makes it feel as though it's not my home. I would never have a doorman at my house. The whole place feels prefabricated and sterile. There's an exercise room and a pool on the sixth floor. Why would anyone ever leave? It's like a gated community, which I think some people would really like. I am not one of those people. I will take my chances with the outside world if only to have easy access to the outside world. I am not afraid of the outside world. There are some people who are, though, and for them this building is a boon.

Another of my friends lives in what used to be a small mansion on the other side of the lake. The mansion has since been divided up into four apartments, two on the second floor and two on the first. She lives in one of the apartments on the second floor and has a small living room, kitchen, and bedroom. She also has a set of stairs that leads to the attic, which is carpeted and has dormer windows looking to the outside. I love this apartment. I wish I lived there. I would make my room upstairs in the attic and turn the bedroom into an office. It's not so small that it is oppressive; nor is it so large that it feels empty. PBT feels empty. If I had millions more dollars, I would stuff it with as much stuff from Pier One or World Market as I could (which is what the previous occupant did) just to make it seem more cozy. But my friend's apartment comes cozy at no additional charge. That is the place where I want to live. The only thing missing is a porch where I can sit on warm summer nights or cool winter nights. It would be a place where I didn't have to walk past a doorman every day or take an elevator eighteen floors up.

I first nicknamed this place American Psycho tower because it's exactly the kind of place where Christian Bale's character from the film might have lived. It's a luxury condo that overlooks the lake. It's insulated from the dangers posed by the Real World. To live here means that You Have Arrived. But now that I've arrived, I'd much rather leave.