In NYC there are these things called “pre-war apartments,” defined as apartments built before WWII. You know, the kind of apartments you see in movies like “Rosemary’s Baby.”

Lorelei is leaving her beloved pre-war apartment.

Here are some of the hallmarks of a pre-war apartment:

Decorative fireplace.

French doors with fancy doorknobs.

Radiator covers decorated with flower baskets.

The thing about a pre-war apartment is . . . well, Lorelei knows when WWII happened, and she can do the math. The original wood floor is splintering, and the clanging radiators, while quaint, could use some upgrading to the current century’s standards.

Lorelei loves her home and its yesteryear charm. But it’s not yesteryear. It’s today. In fact, it’s practically tomorrow. Lorelei is going to have super-fast wifi and automated window-blinds and voice-activated lights and remote temperature controls. She will be comfortable, entertained and informed at every moment without having to get up out of her chair.

But first, all her worldly possessions need to be put in boxes and then stuffed into the service elevator. That’s NYC.

Lorelei is never going to buy anything ever again.

Lorelei is made from more fabric I found in a bin outside of store that was going out of business on 40th Street. Her sweater is made of an old cardigan of my daughter’s, and her jeans from a pair of her old jeans. Her boots are made from fabric given to me by my friend Anne.

“Home is the wallpaper above the bed, the family dinner table, the church bells in the morning, the bruised shins of the playground, the small fears that come with dusk, the streets and squares and monuments and shops that constitute one’s first universe.”

—Henry Anatole Grunwald