Once upon a time, rather a long while ago, there was a bright-eyed, dim-brained twentysomething called Arwa Mahdawi. Young Arwa had recently arrived in New York City and was searching for that most elusive of beasts: an affordable place to live that was convenient, chic and didn’t involve sharing a bathroom with a psychopath. On her budget, this was impossible.
Then, one day, the Craigslist gods smiled down upon her and she found a unicorn: a reasonably priced room (by Manhattan standards) in a sprawling, stylish loft in Chelsea. The housemates were a gay fiftysomething photographer and his dog. The photographer seemed eccentric, sure, but in an artsy New York way, not in a stroke-you-while-you-are-sleeping way. He had photographed big celebrities; he seemed legit. Arwa handed over a $2,000 deposit and counted down the days until she could move in and start her life as a gay Palestinian Carrie Bradshaw.
