“In other parts of the country people try to stay together for the sake of the children. In New York they try to work things out for the sake of the apartment.”
⁓David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day
It’s time to knock a few years off my life and find an apartment in New York City. As previously mentioned, my husband Ross and I were considering Los Angeles, but we received that sign we’d been looking for. It came in the form of a job. Ross is going to be teaching at a nearby University this fall, so we will continue to be New Yorkers for at least another year. The problem is, our lease is up.
This means that in a little over six weeks, Ross, Harry, and I will be moving to a new apartment. I have no idea where this new apartment is or how big it will be or even what neighborhood it may be located. (Have I mentioned that the unknown and I are not exactly best friends?)
Ross and I have moved twice in four years. It’s a bitch…an expensive bitch. In New York, you have to pay a broker 15% of the year’s rent as a finder’s fee. That’s right—a few thousand bucks or more for someone to unlock doors and stand there while you inspect closets and sinks. It’s infuriating, but an integral part of the deal if you want to find a decent place. Moving expenses, security deposits, and high rents are also part of the deal. Normal people save for a rainy day; New Yorkers save for moving day. According to Suze Orman, you should only move once every five years, and that is only if absolutely necessary. Apparently Suze hasn’t met New York landlords.
When we first moved from our loft in Manhattan to Brooklyn, we found a beautiful, spacious parlor floor apartment in the heart of Cobble Hill. Everything was blissful for about a year, and then we had a Christmas party and (oops) forgot to tell the 50-something, hermit/landlord living in the basement. (FYI: We invited her the year before and she didn’t show.) No big deal, right?
WRONG.
She took revenge by blasting Salsa music from 1 to 6 AM, night after night for weeks. Early one morning, around 3, after knocking on her door and begging her to “turn it down,” we finally called the cops. They then pounded on her door, asked her to “turn it down, and got the same answer—nothing.
We realized it was time to leave the premises. So we headed up the street to Brooklyn Heights, where we moved into an apartment that we thought was just as nice. And then we discovered mold. This was found while Harry was in the womb. It was a discovery the landlord didn’t want to acknowledge or fix. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say it was a nightmare that lasted about 18 months. Now that our two-year lease is up, I’m ready to live in a space where the person above or below doesn’t lie and/or despise me. (It would also be nice if I had an inkling of respect for them as well.)
That said, apartment-hunting in New York is a scary and stressful process. Living with Satan might be easier. Good apartments go fast. They hit the market for a nanosecond and then they’re gone, so finding one you sort-of like is full-time job that consumes and sucks every morsel of energy from your being. Now that we have additional responsibility of a kid, I’m a nervous wreck about the process. It was hard enough when Harry wasn’t around, but now, square footage, stairways vs. elevators, and a little bit of mold are a major deal. Plus, after 14 months of being a mom, I finally have mommy friends, know what playgrounds Harry likes, am familiar with the grocery store with the best sales and cheapest organic milk, and know where to go between naps. I know the hours at the local library, the kids’ section of Barnes and Noble, and all the daycare staff at the YMCA. I feel comfortable in our neighborhood and would hate to leave it. But New York real estate has proven to be recession-proof, which means the rents in our neighborhood keep increasing, and I don’t want to live in a shoebox.
That said, I want to stay in New York. I need to stay in New York. I love this city (actually right now I hate it, but in six weeks I’m sure I will love it again). There’s truly nowhere on earth that comes close. So cross your fingers that New York loves me back, and that I’m online for that nanosecond when a good apartment gets posted!
Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and is finishing her MFA in creative writing at The New School. Last year, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. Each Monday, she writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.
