Everything you want to know about Chandra's apartment building
Patty
Article is written by a woman who lives at The Newport, apt
building where Chandra last lived.
The Girl Next Door
Chandra Levy was my neighbor. Then John Walsh moved in.
By Laura Lang
Excerpt from Washington City Paper:
Had Levy's parents not notified authorities of Chandra's disappearance, few in the Newport
might have realized she was missing.
Residents and building employees say they didn't see her around much anyway. The
Newport-like many large buildings in D.C.-is a place where it's easy to keep to yourself.
Made up of 156 condos, the 10-floor building is home to about 200 people, more than half
of whom rent their apartments. Age and ethnicity vary, but to judge from my own morning
and evening trips in and out of the building, there's a heavy proportion of young, working
singles-men and women in their 20s and 30s who work or go to school and have busy lives.
A condo association meets regularly in the office of the building manager, located on the
top floor. There are few other communal activities, even fewer rooms in which to hold
them. A pool sits on the roof of the building, where some take quick dips after work or
lounge on the weekend. And there's a lobby on the main floor, right next to a check-in
desk staffed 24 hours a day, but most people just pass through.
Not even laundry is the social activity that it is in many buildings. The Newport has
small laundry rooms located on each floor, rather than one big one-which limits
interaction significantly. The building is staffed by friendly, efficient people who often
strike up conversations with residents, but it's the sort of place where you could
disappear if you wanted to-and maybe even if you didn't want to-and escape notice.
The neighborhood isn't much different. Located adjacent to Dupont Circle and only blocks
away from the office buildings of Farragut North, the building stands in a sort of
netherworld that's not quite downtown but not really residential, either. During the day,
people swarm the area on their way to and from work. On weekend nights, groups of young
people bounce through as they head to Lulu's or Soho Tea & Coffee. Things quiet down
considerably on weekday evenings, once most people have made it to their homes.
"Me and my friends call this the Bermuda Triangle," says one resident.
I live on the eighth floor of the Newport, five floors above Levy's place. On a weekday
evening, I decide to take a trip downstairs, just to check out the door to Levy's infamous
apartment. I've been told it's covered with police tape and the leftover traces of
fingerprinting dust.
When I step off the elevator, I see the door right away, but it's covered with nothing and
shows no evidence of barred entry. In fact, the door stands unlatched and slightly ajar. I
can hear music and voices coming from inside.
I stand motionless for a few seconds, not quite sure what to do. As far as I know, Levy's
apartment is still vacant, its only visitors the landlord and returning police. But
clearly, there are people inside, and from the sound of it, they aren't there to
investigate a missing-person case.
I finally knock, and I half-expect Levy to come to the door and have some perfectly
reasonable explanation as to why she's been gone for weeks. Perhaps she'll giggle and pass
off the media frenzy as a product of her worrisome parents.
Instead, a tall, thin guy in his 20s opens the door. I explain who I am and what I'm
doing, but he's distracted by a female voice that calls from inside. "Now is a really bad
time," he says, shrugging sheepishly and suggesting I come back later.
The next night, I return. He seems less than excited to see me, but he invites me inside
for a beer. He's a newcomer to the area, so his eagerness to meet people momentarily
outweighs his resistance to talk about the apartment. He does not want me to use his name,
but he offers a few comments about his situation.
In town for a summer job, he says he rented the apartment at the last minute. He didn't
know it was Levy's former place until he showed up to move in.
"[My landlords] said, 'We have something to tell you,'" he recalls. "'The air
conditioner's not working.' I said, 'Whatever.' And then they said, 'Oh yeah, that's
Chandra Levy's apartment.'"
He shakes his head as he says this. We're seated at the breakfast bar in his studio
apartment. It's a bright unit with cream-colored carpet and newish gray kitchen cabinets.
The place is nicely decorated-albeit a bit feminine-with a matching cream-colored futon, a
white stereo cabinet, and a glass-topped coffee table. A mattress is nestled in an alcove
on the back wall of the apartment. It's the same stuff that was there when he moved in,
presumably the same furniture and dishes and bed used by Levy-which disturbs the new
tenant.
"Like, it's kinda creepy to open the cabinet and see this," he says, pulling out a mug and
setting it in front of me. "Know Your Odds Chart," it reads on one side. Below that, it
says:
Odds of meeting a single man
1 in 23
Odds of meeting a cute, single man
1 in 529
Odds of meeting a cute, single, smart man
1 in 3,245,873
Odds of meeting the above when you look your best
1 in 9,729,528
It's the sort of mug a young, single woman-like Levy-might find amusing. It's also the
sort of thing one female friend might give to another, as some sort of cheesy joke. It's
just a mug, but as it sits there in the middle of the breakfast bar, it seems such a sad
sign of a lonely young woman's yearning.
Although, given the revelations about Levy's relationship with Rep. Gary Condit, she might
not have been so concerned about hunting out eligible bachelors. "Yeah, that's ironic,"
says the apartment's new tenant.
He can't shed much more light on Levy's life. He would just like to get on with his own.
He figures he'll stay at the Newport, at least through the summer.
"Aside from sleepless nights, it's a nice apartment," he shrugs. CP
Lady Taker
>presumably the same furniture and dishes and bed used by Levy-which disturbs
>the new
>tenant.
No one took her possessions out of the apartment? The landlord just rents it
out now as a furnished apartment? Is that strange or is it too early in the
morning?
Volfie -> :::hoping her parents removed the *personal* stuff:::
Kris Baker
Lady Taker wrote in message
<20010720054432...@ng-bk1.aol.com>...
The article doesn't directly say that it was Chandra's mug;
a lot of these furnished apartments come complete with
pots, pans, dishes and such. (My friend lived in a condo
in DC for quite awhile, and all she needed to bring were
her personal items and clothes.)
It may have been there when she moved in.
Kris
Steve Franklin
think it's just another missing persons case.
--
Steve Franklin
______
Remove the spaces and translate:
s franklin at erols dot com
"Kris Baker" <kris....@prodigy.net> wrote in message
news:oQZ57.3105$C94.46...@newssvr17.news.prodigy.com...
:
: Lady Taker wrote in message
:
:
debby
know each other someone would have noticed it. As a kidnapper I would not want to try to grab
someone in an apartment near an elevator. Of course the other thing was that the air
conditioner was not working. This means she had to leave the windows open....... Debby
S.<sarg...@infi.net>
Patty wrote:
> http://www.washingtoncitypaper.com/cover/cover0720b.html
>
>
debby
S.<sarg...@infi.net>
taur...@pacbell.net wrote:
> I don't know about that landlord. I thought the landlord moved to San Francisco shortly after she
> disappeared. But apparently there was more than one landlord. Also a building manager who lived upstairs. I
> wonder why she confided with her landlord so many times. Waffling back and forth about giving up the
> apartment. I wonder who the landlord(s) is - his/her name does not come up - ever.
>
> Ora
