Free Stepdog by Mireya Navarro Page B

prices had allowed me to buy my first home—a condo on Biscayne Bay, overlooking South Beach—and I swore I’d never throw my money away on a monthly rental.
    So to upstate Manhattan I went. I landed in historic Washington Heights, the area at the eastern end of the George Washington Bridge that connects the city to New Jersey. The highest point in all of Manhattan island, my neighborhood’s hills were turned into forts during the American Revolutionary War. General George Washington lost the Battle of Fort Washington to the British just around the corner from our local Starbucks. Two and a half centuries later, the area was largely a mix of immigrants from the Dominican Republic and the descendants of earlier newcomers from Ireland, Eastern Europe, Germany, Puerto Rico, and Cuba, with contingents of Russian Jews and African Americans. I was able to buy what I didn’t even know existed in the city for a single working girl—a financially doable one-bedroom with views of the Hudson River. The apartment and its gorgeous roof looked out to the Palisades cliffs on the other side of the river in New Jersey. It was within walking distance of two beautiful parks—the scenic Fort Washington Park and Fort Tryon Park, home to the Cloisters (the Met’s medieval museum branch). Inevitably, gentrification would come and real estate agents would begin calling the area Hudson Heights to signal “upscale.” There was no question I’d be priced out of my own place if I sold, so I found a colleague willing to take the apartment with her husband. A bit nervously, I left my one-bedroom with clanking pipes, holding a copy of
Landlording: A Handymanual for Scrupulous Landlords and Landladies Who Do It Themselves
.
    In Los Angeles, I was adamant about getting our own place. This would be a fresh start for everyone, not just me. I didn’t want to move into the town house, where I’d be disturbing the status quo. The dog had already declared me an intruder and I didn’t want the kiddies following his lead. I found temporary quarters while we house hunted in Santa Monica, only a ten-minute drive on the Pacific Coast Highway from Jim’s place. I could walk to the pier with the Ferris wheel and the Third Street Promenade, a pedestrian street with the feel of an open-air mall with restaurants, shops, and movie theaters.
    I moved to California just in time for Arielle’s bat mitzvah. Jim had been immersed in party planning and making sure she was ready after the rigors of studying the Torah, learning to read the Sabbath prayers for the Saturday-morning service, and writing a sermon about what her bat mitzvah meant to her. Is there anything more intimidating in the life of a thirteen-year-old? On the appointed day, I watched with admiration as she pulled it off beautifully in front of an audience of hundreds, including her school friends, family—many from out of town—and the congregation. In Hebrew! (Henry would be as successful in his own bar mitzvah two years later.) Jim was religious enough to raise his kids Jewish and light Shabbat candles on Friday evenings. I partook of the weekly ritual and had already celebrated Passover and the Jewish high holy days with his father and siblings. In L.A., Jim belonged to a Reconstructionist temple off Sunset Boulevard that was as beautiful as it was welcoming of this gentile woman.
    As I settled into my new job, I mostly relied on Jim to look for our new home. As an avid walker, I didn’t particularly enjoy driving. Los Angeles had walkable neighborhoods where a slice of pizza or a container of milk were only steps away, but we needed to stay in the Palisades, preferably in the Highlands, where Jim already lived, because of the kids’ schools and a fifty-fifty custody arrangement. I’d have to drive for the milk and pizza. But where I lived was not a priority for me at that moment. The Palisades came with my strapping future