Nina In New York: Apartment Hunting Horror Stories
A lighthearted look at news, events, culture and everyday life in New York.
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By Nina Pajak
I am trapped in a black hole. Or maybe it's a rabbit hole. The effect is the same—I'm in an inescapable and endless nosedive down a bottomless pit of my own obsession, an obsession that I suspect could not thrive in any city but the one I call home.
I can't stop looking for new apartments.
I love our place. It boasts those rare features in a Manhattan apartment that I've spent years hunting down: pre-war charm, crown moldings, real wood floors, a layout that remains as it was originally intended (no bathroom plunked down in the corner of the kitchen), multiple overhead light fixtures, a super who is both nice and helpful, an elevator, and an ancient laundry room which features a dryer that runs on an actual gas burner. Believe it. Not to mention a landlady who appears to have a merciful understanding of "market value." But around June of every year, I get that itch that started many years ago, when the beginning of summer meant the beginning of my next apartment hunt.
It's a tough habit to break.
As much as I despise moving and wish to stay in our apartment for as long as we can, I can't help but gravitate towards all those juicy Craigslist and StreetEasy posts. Sometimes I like to see how much apartment we could get for the most insanely, fantastically astronomical budget internet listings can conjure up. Sometimes I like to see which distant neighborhood we'd have to live in to be able to afford a washer-dryer of our own, or a backyard that isn't infested with rats. I can't stop. And it usually ends in my feeling despondent and exhausted and convinced we'll have to live out our days in a one-bedroom place, no matter how large our family one day grows. As it is, the dog lays claim to half the sofa. I'm not quite sure how this is going to work.
I once had a realtor bring me into an apartment which consisted of a living room with a series of kitchen appliances shoved up against one part of a wall. She waved her arm with a flourish towards the corner as we did our walk-through. "And here," she said knowledgeably, "is your galley kitchen."
"This isn't a galley kitchen. There's no galley. This is a living room with a fridge in it."
She smiled politely and assured me it indeed was, as it had been advertised in the listing. I swear I saw a second set of lids blink, but I couldn't be certain.
I've had realtors show me apartments with a "chef's kitchen" featuring a microfridge (stainless steel!).
Once, a woman showed us an impossibly tiny, recently renovated apartment in Chelsea which she swore was owned by the best landlord who ever lived. We told her it was just too small for us, but she wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Week after week, she called and emailed and insisted that she couldn't watch us let a deal like this go by. She wanted to know what we'd need changed if we were to rent the place. With nothing to lose other than a stalker, we didn't hold back: more cabinets, dishwasher, storage space, new windows, hold it for a month, knock off a couple hundred bucks, and somehow make 300 square feet materialize out of nothingness.
"I'm going to make this happen!" she said. We were shocked, and a little nervous.
To her credit, she continued to hound us with insane promises for another couple of weeks before she disappeared from the face of the earth. I'd love to know what that apartment looks like now. I'm guessing exactly the same.
We all know apartment hunting in New York City isn't easy. What are you horror stories? Share with us!
Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I'm always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.
Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.
The Nina In New York Archives:
Make That A Quadruple Espresso
Would You Give Up Sex To Keep Your iPhone?
You Can Find Me At The Dog Run
