The Apartment Search Continues
There are lots of reasons to want to die during an apartment search in Manhattan. While it might seem somewhat sexy and voyeuristic to meet strangers in dark hallways or freezing corners mid-day for a quickie view of a space at first, instead of sharing furtive glances, you will inevitably end up sharing eyerolls.
These days I often feel like I’m going on a series of drug pick-ups. I get a call with minimal directions on where to meet an [oftentimes shady] stranger and am told what I will need to bring. Sometimes it is $500 in cash; sometimes it is my last three months of bank statements. I walk down foreign streets trying to imagine what it would be like to live there and in that instant I am a totally different person who has just taken a brief vacation from her own life. No longer am I KK from the UES, but I’m a wholly different woman, this one living a Sliding Doors life in the East Village.
I find myself in hovels smelling of [Dear God I hope it is cat] urine, picking my way through tenants’ belongings, opening their closets and peering out their windows. I see their hair in their brushes, see their overly used toothbrushes and get sad seeing how most have nothing more than a hallway as a living room. I mentally change all toilet seats.
What is probably the biggest feeling of wanting to die comes right when that door opens and I realize it is not the one. Sort of like being set up on a blind date when you shake the doofus’ sweaty hand and see his roll of neck fat that was not in his carefully photohopped pictures, you just know this is not the one for you. Only with apartments, thankfully, the time spent is exponentially shorter, but without the plus of free drinks. Also, any apartment I choose can’t just be broken up with on a whim; this will be a marriage of sorts, at the very least for a full year.
I am very clear with brokers about what I am looking for and make it known I realize it is a very difficult request: I am looking for a huge space [a big one bedroom, junior four or small convertible two; railroad apartments with four rooms are ideal—with a separate eat-in kitchen that must allow small dogs and be under $2K. I must be able to create a separate office space and house my many clothes, all the while making sure it is not over a fourth floor walkup, has any bug problems and is not above 108th on the West Side or on Avenues B, C or D downtown. Also, I will not live on the Upper East Side. Oh and being a freelancer I know my tax returns will not look like I make 40X the annual rent. I am willing to pay a year up front, offer extra security or blow the landlord. [I AM ABSOLUTELY KIDDING ABOUT THE LATTER, in case you can’t hear sarcasm in the post.]
So when I check out a listing—-pictures can be deceiving—-I ask all those questions and verify the listing fits the criteria. Why waste my time and the broker’s? You don’t get a credit score in the 800s without being a stickler for details.
My big die moment came yesterday morning when after speaking to a broker for about 20 minutes about a listing on West 103rd and verifying it was a HUGE one bedroom with an eat-in kitchen with plenty of closets, I raced in a cab to see it only to be met with a tiny one-bedroom with no separate kitchen at all. Not only that but having been promised there were FOUR apartments to see in the area, the broker said he wouldn’t have keys to the others until Friday. I couldn’t hide my disdain and wanted to throttled him for wasting my time and energy.
When you say you have crack for sale, you better not tell me I have to wait to Friday after I drag my jonesing ass there.
