The frustration knows no bounds

New York strikes again.

I feel like every post on this new blog has so far been me complaining, but, really, this is all getting to be a bit much!

When we were moving from Indy, we decided to go with one of those store and move companies, specifically SAM. The deal is that they deliver a storage pod which you pack yourself, they store it, then move it and deliver it to your new location. We chose it as a middle ground-- not as expensive as a full moving company, not as inconvenient as packing a van, unpacking it into a storage locker, then packing and unpacking it all again a few months later, especially as we had 2 cars with us out in Indy and would have either had to trailer one or have someone fly out to drive it back. After LOTS of research, we chose SAM as it offered service in both Indianapolis and Brooklyn.

Unfortunately, they did not say ANYWHERE when we selected them back in December that they are not allowed to deliver a storage container to an on-street location anywhere in Brooklyn, even though the company fully knew that our final location was going to be Brooklyn.

So, we now must find an accessible driveway nearby (unlikely), or, we'll have to end up renting a van, unpacking the storage container, loading the van and unloading it at the apartment. Which defeats the entire purpose of having used a SAM to begin with and with results in us having, essentially, wasted about 1000 bucks.

I'm already pretty much all set with this city and we haven't even officially moved here yet.

Of lucky cats and lottery tickets, or: How we managed to (finally) find our Brooklyn apartment

Last weekend. Impending homelessness: 2 days away and counting. We were down to the wire. Saturday was slightly, and disappointingly, non-eventful. None of the apartments we saw were particularly awful, but none particularly appealed to us either. Saturday's moonrise brought another sleepless night, another morning on Craigslist before dawn.

Sunday started out worse. We were piloted by a Hasidic man* with a bluetooth earpiece in a minivan to 3 of the worst hovels we'd seen so far. I'm talking about holes in the floor, below which cockroaches lay in anticipation for the dark, when they could emerge in droves, floors so warped I was afraid they would collapse soon, layers of plaster missing from the walls, decades-old refrigerators and stoves whose metallic surfaces had long since yielded to oxidation... Maybe we should just suck it up and offer a whole year's rent to the management company that rejected us with 6 months up front, if these places were the alternative.

With a heavy heart, we sat in a local cafe waiting for 1:30pm, when we were meant to meet with our broker, Jaime, who claimed he'd found us the "perfect" place... for only $1875 monthly... Seeing as 1) the place we last applied to through him in this neighborhood rejected us, and that place was "only" $1800, 2) that extra 75 bucks may not seem like much, but it was frankly beyond our budget and 3) it was in a less-savory part of town, we did not hold up much hope.

I remembered seeing on Craigslist the day before a listing for an open house for a by-owner apartment in the neighborhood at 1pm. We decided to give it a shot, even though with previous by-owner apartments we'd either been disappointed (cockroaches in the tub and such) or beaten to the punch. We met Ron, the owner, and he brought us up to the top floor of the 4-story walk-up. We were immediately attracted to the idea of Ron as a landlord: in his 30s, I suspect, he'd bought the brownstone and done much of the renovation on his own. He seemed genuine, helpful, reasonable and down-to-earth. We established a good rapport, especially after I learned he was a fish-eating vegetarian as well. And the apartment: hardwoods, massive closet space, sunny, gas stove, decent-sized kitchen, large living and bedrooms. And a roof deck. A block from the train. We loved it. We asked for an application, promised to fax it along with all the necessary paperwork that afternoon, and emerged, slightly crestfallen when we saw another young-ish couple waiting outside for a viewing, complete with adorable small dog."At least it's not a baby," I said to Karel, alluding to the way an owner had fawned over one at an open house the day before, after which we joked about renting one for the day. I think Tate would actually be able to turn on the charm for us very well. What do you say, Dave and Michelle? Although, not being married, that may turn out to actually work against us...

At any rate, we walked down the block, virtually skipping, wondering about the next step. Do we wait? Do we meet with Jaime anyway? Jaime was planning, the next morning, on approaching the management company for that apartment where we offered 6 months up front again, trying to re-apply now that I had a job (they rejected us before they took a look at my employment letter). Do we have him do that and also apply for Ron's spot? If we got Ron's spot, I'd prefer that: same neighborhood, no broker fee. However, that certainly was in no way a guarantee, regardless of our rapport. On the other hand, if we did re-apply to the former spot, we'd lose a $900 good-faith deposit if we later decided found out we did, indeed, get Ron's spot.

Our course of action, we decided (thank Buddha Karel was with me for this round of apartment viewing), would be this: cancel the appointment with Jaime, photocopy the necessary documents and deliver them, along with the application, to Ron in person, and play the waiting game with the other apartment. Jaime wouldn't renegotiate without our final ok, and it had already been on the market for a while; we figured it was worth the gamble.

So it was off to the corner shop for some photocopy mania. This being Mother's Day, one local mother was treating herself to some lottery tickets. Winning $10 on the first one, she bought a couple more. Before she left the store, she had won $110. I needed some of her luck! I told her such, and she rubbed some off on me. Karel and I crossed our fingers that it would work.

After delivering all the paperwork, it was the waiting game, along with 2 doubles in a row at the new job, concurrent with having to relocate to Pete's apartment as Ramin, who we'd been subletting from, had returned. It was not the easiest of days. Ron called Monday: he was wondering if we could send him proof we had some money in the bank, understandably so since our jobs were both so new. I spent an hour before work Tuesday morning partaking in faxing mania again. On edge and not looking forward to the second half of my second double in a row, I took a walk to help my nerves, and happened to pass by a Japanese gift shop.

One thing you should know about Karel and I: we are obsessed with those good-fortune cats, the kind you see in every shop and restaurant in every Chinatown and in every Asian country (at least Southeast Asian). You know: the gold ones, with the rocking hands? We have 3. They are meant to disperse, well, good fortune. The little Japanese gift shop had some, done, however, in the Japanese style: good fortune Hello Kitty. They came in different colors, and depending on the color you chose and where you placed them in your house, they brought you different kinds of luck. There was no color that was geared particularly toward the homeless, so I decided to go with the red one, who promised a good job. As I had not done a particularly good job at the new job the night before, and as a good "real" job was the next step after procuring a homestead, I figured this was a good choice.

With my red hello good fortune kitty stashed safely in my locker, I completely rocked it at work. Perfect flow, no rookie mistakes, great tips. Thanking the kitty as I left work, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket: a text message from Karel. We got the spot! We can't move in until June 1st, but still, clean, owner-occupied, huge closets, and a roof deck. You can't get much better in Brooklyn. Of course, hello kitty will inhabit a place of honor.

And that, my friends, is how we finally managed to procure an apartment in New York City.



* I mention his religion only because the physical juxtaposition was incredibly amusing: the long overcoat, the top hat, the curls framing his face... And then the bluetooth earpiece. It just didn't jive easily perceptually.

I love NY???

I'm sorry to be questioning my love for this city. I really DO love New York, the problem is that I think the relationship is one-sided. Dr. Phil would not approve. I am a love-sick puppy, begging for New York's approval and love, and, instead, all it is showing me is ambivalence, at best, disdain more usually.

There's a parking lot I walk by on the way to the nearest subway station. Every time I walk by it and look in, there is the same black and white cat sitting there, washing its butt. Really, every time. I feel it is a very apropos metaphor for New York's feelings for me. In New York's eyes, I'm just something that it needs to lick off its butt.

There are, of course, the myriad superficial inconveniences, like how my computer absolutely refuses to befriend our subletter's wireless internet, even when I use my own router and the signal strength is full, or how we weren't able to figure out how to make either the TV or our subletter's desktop work so we could watch a movie for a while... The eject button for the DVD drive is on the keyboard of Macs? Who knew? Then there are boots springing sudden leaks during rainstorms, trains perpetually just missed, et cetera, et cetera. But I think the biggest proof, by far, of New York's seemingly flat-out rejection of us is its absolute refusal to offer forth any opportunity for a permanent place to live.

When we first arrived, everything went so perfectly and smoothly. We found a great sublet in a fun, funky part of town on the first try, Karel landed the first job he interviewed for, I receieved a job offer a day after applying... We obviously belonged here. But, then, we moved into our sublet and the cat started perpetually licking its butt and everything started to unravel. The job offer ended up being far short of what I was looking for. While Karel's job is great, it doesn't pay as much as we had hoped. And then the apartment search. Man.

Multiple people (everyone you know who lives in or has lived in New York, actually) can tell you over and over how crazy it is to find an apartment in this city. We knew it would be nuts. We knew we weren't entirely prepared. Still, between the two of us, we have rented apartments in Providence, Pawtucket, Boston, San Diego, New Orleans, Buffalo, Barcelona, Florida, Indianapolis and Andorra. How bad can it be? Uh, yeah.

New York is expensive. Not just Manhattan. Brooklyn and even Queens now is being priced out. Sure, there are black Amex cards aplenty in this city, but, still, not many people can afford to buy. So take the insanity of a real estate market, multiply it 100-fold to reflect the fact that said market is in NYC, and then transfer all that stress and craziness to a rental market, as that's where most of the real estate wheeling and dealings are happening. And you still aren't close to describing how it feels to rent an apartment in New York.

First, there are the apartments themselves. We have applied for 4 so far. We have seen nearly 100. When you see an apartment you are vaguely interested in here, thanks to the enormous level of competition, you have to jump on it. So out of all the apartments we have seen, only 4% of them we have considered inhabitable. Scary (really scary) neighborhoods. Cockroaches in bathtubs. Mice. Rats. Stairs about to collapse. Paint (probably lead) falling off the ceiling. Bathrooms in the middle if the kitchen. As in, without a door. Just in the kitchen. No ceilings. No walls. A one bedroom where the bedroom wouldn't even fit a twin bed. Probably not even a desk. College-style mini-fridges. No closets. No doors. Bear in mind our max is $1800 monthly; that should get us SOMETHING acceptable. Still, these are the things we see. And this is Brooklyn. I met someone who has a "great deal" in the West Village. I think it's $2800 for a 2 bedroom. She has a roommate. They have one of the bathroom-in-the-kitchen deals. They string a curtain around the toilet and shower.

Then, when you do find a potential apartment, there are the documents. With each apartment we apply to, it seems, the list of required documents seems to grow. What we have submitted so far: IDs. Reference from previous landlord. Verification of employment letter from employer. Last 3 paystubs. Makes sense so far. W2s from last 3 years. Tax returns from last 3 years. Bank statements from last 3 to 6 months. Last 4 cancelled rent checks. 3 recent electric, gas, phone, cell phone, cable and internet bills. Employment history from last 5 years. Rental history from past 5 years. 2 personal references from each applicant. Photocopies of passports. Proof of other assets. I am waiting to be asked to supply my journal from 7th grade and report cards from kindergarten on. And then there's the 60 to 100 bucks each for a credit check and "processing fee".

Also, owners/landlords/management companies want to see a tenant making 40 times the monthly rent in a year (before taxes) to consider the tenant qualified. So, in order to get into a lease for $1800 monthly, you need to make $72,000 gross. Normally, with 2 people, no big deal. I'd need to make much less than $30,000 for us to be qualified. The only problem is that I have no idea how we'd be able to look for apartments if I were employed full time. Apparently, however, you are a more qualified candidate if you are currently homeless, as long as you have a job.

If you're not financially secure enough for the owner's liking (as in our case), each applicant will need a guarantor. Not all places accept a guarantor; some places require them even if you meet all criteria and then some. A guarantor needs perfect credit and, if you as an applicant don't make 40 times the rent, they need to gross 80 times the rent. Each guarantor needs to provide proof of income, last 3 bank statements and last year's W2s as well. And then there's the credit check and processing fees for each of your guarantors as well, so just applying for a place can cost you $400, which you don't get back even if you're rejected. And let's not forget about the very sensible broker's fee, 12-15% of a yearly lease. Which means, when renting a place for about $1800 monthly (and that's a reasonable rent for a 1 bedroom, unless you want to be out in the boonies), you cough up upon signing a lease about $2500 for nothing, and you never see that money again.

We have applied for 4 places so far. The first one rejected us straight-out as Karel's credit is "recovering" and I didn't have a job. The apartment, which had a yard but didn't have a door to the bedroom (which was more the front part of a double parlor than the bedroom-- this is very common in the many "railroad apartments" in this city), closet space or windows in the living room, was apparently priced at $500 under market value. For this reason, the landlord didn't feel as though she should have to go through the "hassle" of having a tenant with guarantors. First, the hassle isn't hers. It's ours-- we contact, beg, write our own letters of recommendation for people to sign as it's a pain enough for them to have to sign them and fax them (most New Yorkers don't realize that not everyone has immediate access to a fax machine), locate records from 12 years ago, try to find a place to fax from, make parents travel an hour away so they can find a place to fax from... She doesn't even look at the paperwork-- the broker does and then explains it to her. Secondly, if I had perfect credit and were making bank down on Wall Street, I would want a door on my bedroom. And windows in my living room. And a closet I don't have to buy from IKEA. And, yeah, there's a yard, but it's all dirt, and you'd prefer a tenant who would spruce it up a bit. Sorry, but I work 80 hours a week. I don't even have time to grill a meal outside, nevermind grow a garden. Anyway, I make enough to qualify me for the much nicer place up the street going for only $500 more, spare change for me, so, thanks but no thanks. Yeah, good luck lady.

The 2nd place we found was being rented directly from an owner, which is much better, as you avoid the whole broker fee BS and get to interact with the owner directly, making things much more human. Unfortunately, the competition for owner-rented spots is even steeper than the competition for the rental market in general; you really need to know the owner in such cases. In that case, someone unfortunately beat us to the punch.

We were really excited for the 3rd spot. Great part of town, accessible to Manhattan, nice new kitchen. It was small, but not stupid-small and made a nice use of the space it did have. The fire escape was even a large one! We went back to our broker's office, got all our paperwork in order, went through the whole mad process of contacting people and begging for documents we didn't need for the last application and then all the faxing mania. We were on the edge of our seats. And then we got the call. The brokerage, upon callng the management agency, found out that the apartment had just been rented that day. It was back to the drawing board. At least we got our $400 back.

And then, the next day, after seeing 7 other apartments with Jaime, our broker who by this point was as concerned about finding us a place as we were, I found it. The spot. The one place out of the nearly-100 I've seen that I walked into and thought "This is it," with zero reservation. No thinking that it was in the wrong part of town, too small, or the bathroom too dark, or the stove electric, or wondering if the bed would fit into the bedroom (which has a door, and a large closet). Usually I take pictures of the places I check out, as I'm often alone and need to show Karel what the place looks like, if it's a place I'm considering. I didn't even take any pictures; it was the first maybe that was absolutely a definitely. I was so excited I was shaking.

And it was back to the broker's office, all the papers in order by now, everything I could possibly need. Guarantor information ready to be provided and all.

Then the bad news. The management agency doesn't accept guarantors. As we didn't make 40 times the monthly rent (yet) and Karel doesn't have great credit, the only bargaining option we could use, the brokerage informed us, was having 6 months' rent up front. Which, sadly, after our latest adventure, I no longer have in the bank.

I walked out, dejected, ready to cry, wondering how in the world I'd go back and do this all over the next day. It's tiring, running around the city all day every day, on and off trains, walking miles and miles, checking out anywhere from 5 to 10 apartments a day, researching craigslist with a fine-toothed comb, calling strangers, making more appointments for the next day.

It's also sad and draining, being 28 and 35, two people with a steady employment history and more money saved up in the bank than a lot of our friends, and still not being able to find a place to live. I feel like a loser. Like we're the most unreliable, financially irresponsible people in the world. It doesn't help when you have to lean on parents for help. I know I am very very lucky to be in a situation where I can do just that. But, still, it does not do wonders for the self esteem.

Still, thanks to financially responsible and incredibly charitable parents, I am fortunate enough to be in a position where we can offer the 6 months up front. It was back to the broker's office to fill out the application and now more fax mania. I did everything I could to show some sort of income--letters showing I bring in money tutoring and selling photographs. And then, within one week, I had a job as a bartender and a waitress. You want income? Fine, look, I can land a job in a week. And I'll pull in 600 bucks weekly, after tax. So, $12,000 up front and a job for me. That has to be enough, no? No. After stringing us along for a week (a week during which we missed out on looking at more apartments as we couldn't really jump on anything anyway), they rejected us.

And now our subletter comes back Monday. As in the day after tomorrow.

So, after a very expensive education at Tufts, where I graudated with honors, after a solid 5 years of teaching, after nearly dying in a car accident, after nearly 2 years of traveling around the world, after shooting to the top and becoming one of the restaurant's best servers months after being hired at my first restaurant job ever, after later being promoted into essentially a management position created just for me at that same restaurant, after landing a job in New York City less than a week after I even started trying to look for a restaurant job (thank you Pete!!), I am now, officially, a homeless bartender.

Hurrah. I love New York.