Gimme Shelter
Finding a place to live is easier said than done. Sure there is the fun of going to look at different places and imagining (or trying not to imagine) living there. There is something voyeuristic about it; a guilty pleasure of going into people's homes and looking around, trying to picture your stuff - all of your stuff - there.
Finding a place to live also is a full-time job. One has to contend with missed appointments and no-show landlords, flaky brokers and a whole lot of embellishment in the advertising. We soured Craigslist for weeks, made appointments, drove around and sifted through the cesspool of rental housing. Some of it was beautiful and expensive. Beautiful and tiny. Livable but in a bad location. An apartment without a kitchen. An apartment with a kitchen, an uphill kitchen. A staircase that was 2 feet wide. Apartments with no living space. Studios with chef's kitchens, but little else. Historically preserved, or raped of its charm by the vile period of the 50s through the 70s. I'm pretty sure we saw it all. I actually lost count of how many places we saw until we found "the one."
"The One" was a railroad-style apartment that consisted of the entire second floor of a beautifully preserved town house, which was owned by two gay guys. Need I say more? A huge kitchen, a nice bathroom - both with views of lower Manhattan. A park nearby, Hoboken just down the hill. What else could we want? Not much. We plunked down our deposit and went on to celebrate 4th of July by watching the fireworks display in New York City. The lease would be signed the next day.
The next day could not come around soon enough, and when it eventually did, Scott and I met with the broker at her office to sign the lease. Our search was over - we had found a needle in the haystack. But things are not always as they seem, and the whole thing fell through. The landlord decided no to rent the place and, instead, add a third floor to the place. I wish torrential rains upon him and his stupid project. It was back to square one. Back to Craigslit. Back to the cesspool.
Another wasted weekend. No pets allowed. Not big enough for our furniture. No parking. Sorry, our agents don't work on Saturday. What the hell? But fine. There was a picture of a house on a real estate website. It looked cool. We could sort of make out the address, so we went looking for it and found it in a lovely neighborhood. There was a "for rent" sign on it. I called. The landlady called me back. Five minutes later we were in. We liked it. We took it. It was home.
So now we are all moved. Our shit is everywhere. The cat is freaked out; he doesn't know what to do with himself. We have 17 windows, each about 6'4" in height. We have the second floor of the house - all of it. There are no views of Manhattan, but there are children at play outside, people walking their dogs, and a general feel of being in a real neighborhood. We're home.
Finding a place to live also is a full-time job. One has to contend with missed appointments and no-show landlords, flaky brokers and a whole lot of embellishment in the advertising. We soured Craigslist for weeks, made appointments, drove around and sifted through the cesspool of rental housing. Some of it was beautiful and expensive. Beautiful and tiny. Livable but in a bad location. An apartment without a kitchen. An apartment with a kitchen, an uphill kitchen. A staircase that was 2 feet wide. Apartments with no living space. Studios with chef's kitchens, but little else. Historically preserved, or raped of its charm by the vile period of the 50s through the 70s. I'm pretty sure we saw it all. I actually lost count of how many places we saw until we found "the one."
"The One" was a railroad-style apartment that consisted of the entire second floor of a beautifully preserved town house, which was owned by two gay guys. Need I say more? A huge kitchen, a nice bathroom - both with views of lower Manhattan. A park nearby, Hoboken just down the hill. What else could we want? Not much. We plunked down our deposit and went on to celebrate 4th of July by watching the fireworks display in New York City. The lease would be signed the next day.
The next day could not come around soon enough, and when it eventually did, Scott and I met with the broker at her office to sign the lease. Our search was over - we had found a needle in the haystack. But things are not always as they seem, and the whole thing fell through. The landlord decided no to rent the place and, instead, add a third floor to the place. I wish torrential rains upon him and his stupid project. It was back to square one. Back to Craigslit. Back to the cesspool.
Another wasted weekend. No pets allowed. Not big enough for our furniture. No parking. Sorry, our agents don't work on Saturday. What the hell? But fine. There was a picture of a house on a real estate website. It looked cool. We could sort of make out the address, so we went looking for it and found it in a lovely neighborhood. There was a "for rent" sign on it. I called. The landlady called me back. Five minutes later we were in. We liked it. We took it. It was home.
So now we are all moved. Our shit is everywhere. The cat is freaked out; he doesn't know what to do with himself. We have 17 windows, each about 6'4" in height. We have the second floor of the house - all of it. There are no views of Manhattan, but there are children at play outside, people walking their dogs, and a general feel of being in a real neighborhood. We're home.
Labels: city life
posted by Fe at 5:29 PM
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