And somehow, I feel cooler.

Despite the fact that my toilet is currently in my bedroom, I am more than thrilled to be living where I am. And why is that, you might wonder? While Rich, the building's fix-it man was busy ripping up my bathroom floor and breaking up mortar (the floor's level needs to be raised and the linoleum replaced), he did some investigating. For some reason, my apartment is higher than any of the others on the second floor. For those of you that have visited, you know the hallway leading to my door is an actual ramp. Very bizarre.

From the little I know, the building was most likely built during the mid-1800s. In its early stages it was an actual saloon. That's right--men in cowboy hats and chaps with their horses, making a scene down beneath my kitchen. The local brothel was also conveniently located around the corner, where the Irish Pub stands now. Scandalous. This building was also used as a beer bottling company, a couple of diner-type establishments, and a not-so-glorious dry cleaning business. But GET THIS--as Rich was digging around, he noticed a very large space between my apartment's floor and the ceiling of the bakery beneath me.

His theory:


(drum roll, please)


The space was used for hiding slaves.

Now how great would that be? It now has my head spinning with the possibilities of all the lives that have come through here . . . . I think this is why I love old buildings so much. I get to be a small part of their ongoing stories, while also learning from their history. To think--I put on makeup above a place where actual slaves might have been fleeing captivity . . .how mind-blowing is that?! What else has gone on between these walls and underneath these floors?