I can’t even say I’m apartment hunting because I’m so clearly the prey in this situation. Broker fees, deposits, 400 sq. ft units, trains, 1.6 million people – and how TF am I supposed to know where west is without mountains?! Scratch that, I barely know where west is and I live in the west.
I aim to keep some of the amenities I have in Denver like a solid kitchen, closet space to accommodate the stacks-n-stacks of my oversized T-shirts, room for a healthy-sized bar cart, washer/dryer, and how about a gym should I ever decide to visit one. Oh, and maybe if I strike gold I can keep my car. Stop laughing. I-know, I-know. I was so very-very wrong.
When you imagine New York living, you see charming brownstones, fire escapes, and Carrie Bradshaw’s West Village unit. Naturally, I want this. Buuuut I also crave enough space and niceties for all my most unrealistic dreams and desires. And that’s where it all went wrong.
So, with a monthly rental budget of around $3,500 between me and my boyfriend, that put us all-the-way-the-hell out in Bushwick. I think. We were on the M for so long we could’ve been anywhere.
When we finally arrived it wasn’t even an apartment complex. It was a compound. A cruise ship. A tiny town as my boyfriend likes to call it. So over the top, the tour was endless – I was half expecting an intermission with snacks halfway through.
After wasting an hour of my life I’ll never get back, we said thanks for the tour, but probably not for us. And I cannot make this up; she replied – “Sorry my broker fee is so high, but it’s what lets me push a Benz.”
I gave her the nod – and all my respect with it – disembarked the cruise ship and quickly ducked to the nearest bar with my laughing boyfriend in tow. I applaud him for humoring me and going along for the tour and all it entailed. But I resent him for humoring me and going along for the tour and all it entailed.
We canceled all our subsequent viewings, took account of what’s realistic, and killed our darlings. Cars: gotta go. Closet space: committed to wearing 3 outfits for the rest of my life. Washer & dryer: will only have 3 outfits so no longer matters. But I’m still holding out for a kitchen.
For all the compromises, contracts, and contingencies, we decided to lean in. We’re committed to moving to Manhattan – or Manhattan-adjacent. We’ll sell our cars, and take what we can get. Most likely, it’ll be a shoebox, I’ll most definitely get lost on the trains. And we’ll absolutely be two in 1.6 million people, but alas – we’re packing up.
Tune in next week when I try to sell my car despite the Avengers bumper sticker that isn’t peeling off quite as willingly as I’d hoped…
