Manhattan Apartments Inc

So the second hunt was very different.

Building up a list of unusual-to-me names (having met a Lazer, Rex, Brad...), Criseida, the Hispanic in control with the blackest straightest immuculatest hair I can really imagine, booked me up for two showings on a Tuesday lunchtime on the upper east side. I was curious to see what you get for your dollar there and to feel how it might be living in that area.

So here was apartment living of a different kind: posh foyer with barely ever used posh sofas and rug, doorman with striped slightly patronizing suit - and what a boring job!, and floors and floors of identical green carpeted hallways with identical doors off of them.

Criseida's apartment-showing consisted of opening the door, letting you let her go first in a very suave way, and then watching you prowl around. The strange bit of timing as I waited for her to give me the tour, made me feel like a baby put on the floor next to its cot - her watching to see what I would do. OK then! I'll give myself the tour...

Eeek! weeny, teeny kitchen. Eeek! big stodgy armchairs aimed at TV next to double bed. Nice dining table and 2 chairs by window. And furnished places are not usual it seems. It felt like a convalescent room though with the TV and all, not very funky. I have learnt that 'seeing yourself living there' is the only real barometer for a decision in home hunting, apart from desparation. And I've learnt that in Manhattan, places go, like everything else here, quickly. But no fear of that did I feel on this one.

Nor the next one with its nasty old electric cooker. A corridor shaped flat. No doorman which did make the entrance seem a little less safe but only because I'd got used to the idea of a doorman in 20 minutes! The saggy incommunicative Italio-New Yorker lady who opened the door for us was a character though. She made it very clear that the hot water/heating was included - the norm in NYC. And I understand that there is no such thing as council tax!

But the hit was Sherita. Having seen that this hunting business could be a long process I hunted for a chance to see another place that evening, calling a number from CraigsList.com which promoted a place for $1500 mid-town, near Times Square infact. The location sounded like a mixed blessing but I needed to see what you got so centrally.

So Sherita with her very nasal twang told me to be at on the 4th floor of 729 7th avenue for 6pm. Sounded fine. I was. The ground level entrance had seemed....sparkley. And I stepped out of the golden lift into...a huge room of desks all facing the door, with a large semi-circular reception desk at the front. No Sherita, no flat! I was given a form as I slowly said "I think I'm in the wrong place." The receptionist corrected me 'if I was looking for an apartment', which funnily enough I was.

"Hm. What the heck is going on here?" I thought. I filled out the form on auto, asking the receptionist if I could see Sherita. She asked me which company she worked for. I said I didn't know. I called Sherita on cellphone. She answered, saying that if I filled out the form then I would be brought to her. I swear for 3 seconds I thought this was a cover for a brothel and I had been really stupid. As someone who hadn't realised they'd seen a prostitute until about 26 years of age, this seemed possible.

I then got introduced to one Rory who looked at the form, at my job, at my salary and seemed to approve of my idea of living on the upper east side for under $2000. It became clear that many people arriving in Manhattan daily are clueless as to how difficult it is to afford, find and then the really hard bit: convince the landlord to take let you rent their flat. And me having no 'credit history' to be checked I had already heard, is a big deal. But so far my company name was helping a lot, and being able to pay several months of rent in advance was helping too.

But I was irritated! I had intended to nip out for an hour and see a pad! Then steal back to work for an hour to make up for the long lunch hour I had taken! Where was Sherita and her flat please!

Rory, a big guy with bad dress sense, docile and tolerant but no fool, didn't blink as I blew a few fuses about the situation. He tapped into his computer and started listing places that matched the kind of place I was describing. It became clear that we were going on a tour of about 5 places. What the hell, I decided.

"Public transport?" I said.

"On foot and subway. Sherita will take you around"

"So how long do you think it will it take?"

"An hour half..."

He called over softly to someone at a desk behind me "you will be going out again in a bit". I was beginning to get fascinated by the theatre of this whole episode, eyeing other desks and the groups of students around them, and then a lady with incredibly big hair, a dude, a couple.... But I still felt manipulated and was on my guard totally. I kept checking to myself that I still could leave, I still had my money and keys on my person, I hadn't signed anything and didn't have to rent anything at all or have sex and pay anything.

Sherita then arrived. She was a very well bred smiley Texan brunette with an angular pretty face, steady eyes and a kind demeanour. She introduced herself, apoligizing for not meeting me in person at the door and said she was looking forward to showing me around. I was beginning to trust Rory too but wasn't sure if I trusted myself not to be gullible.

Once we hit the street, and hit it we did, it all began to change. Sherita was indeed charming and normal, telling me how she loved her job because she didn't have to sit in an office all day, got to meet great people and snoop at many different apartments.

We chatted on the subway (train) as she guided and smoothed the journey with her local shortcuts and tricks. Turns out she writes songs and has a very fine Taylor guitar, is allergic to gluten, is sympathetic to the occupy movement, takes the view that corporations have supported the toxification of American food for decades for economic gain. She even sang me a bit of one of her songs on the number 4,5,6 platform going uptown at 59th street. She said she was dabbling in her roots: country music. The rather good tune stuck in my head and I said it could be an acapella spiritual. She agreed. We were getting along!

I also found out that students like to come to NYC to study. This is different from UK where I remember being thought a bit stupid choosing London - it being so expensive and unnecessary when students can make a party wherever they land kind of thing.

It just seems that people want to be in NYC. There is something about it. Jeez, feel a song coming on? It does make sense of all the ridiculously high buildings on this small island though. And ancient Indian 'energy lines' all coming to an apex at this point in the US is as good as many explanations to me of why here.

So, as we legged it around the upper east, lots came out about the city in a very organic and useful way. From dealing with the serious bedbug problem to covering your musical instruments in the humid summer so they don't get damp, never putting them by a pipe as pipes boil in the winter even when your heating is off, buying ones first aircon machine, neighbours, superintendents of buildings....

We toured for an exhausting but exciting 2 and a half hours in the end. So I had this marvelous cocktail of "really helpful person to have met in NYC who was putting herself out to show me places and give me great advice on all kinds of things", and "you are not leaving until you like an apartment if it kills me so that I get my fee (and one for the company)". The latter was not in the vibe of things at all - but it had to be true. And the fee was almost worth the experience of shadowing a local serious hot-footer - I barely kept up - even had to execute the odd body-roll to fit around people on the sidewalk and not lose sight of her.

I couldn't get her to admit that there was no $1500 apartment - the one I called for originally. It was just bait, which pollutes CraigsList. And I have since read many hateful reviews of the 'boiler room' aka 'Manhattan Apartments Inc' bait-and-wait (how they love their advertising style jingles to summarize a concept well in the US - unlike this sentence!) operation. One reviewer reported that a broker had bugged her for a date for weeks after the experience, probably bed-bugged in fact. "Glad he has all my details" she wrote sarcastically.

I have sometimes been accused of seeing the other's point of view too much. And I here I do it again. I could actually see the sense of the operation as it did get me inside an apartment that I could see myself living in within 2 hours. You just have to line up a set of apartments and go see them all. And this company have it all set up that way, down to having eye-catching rows and rows and rows of apartment keys all ready to go. So I agreed with some of the positive reviews and felt lucky on my chancing on the right broker, and $paid for it.

Well I've signed the lease and I'll be gradually moving to here over the next 2 weeks :)

Evrybaardy dantz!

Just wanted to clear up the title. I have long been amused by the ways that pop stars need to pronounce words differently in singing to speaking, not because of the rythm or melody dictate but because the words sound better.
For instance 'crazy' in a rock song has to be either 'crazair' or 'crayzeee' or 'crayzay' many times. There are quite a few examples. And 'laydair' is just a pop pronunciation of 'lady'.
So I chose a song about my situation: I left London (a woman) - or could be Shania, my bass - for another lady (New York) - as is told in the hit song by chart-topping quirky Paloma Faith.
Unfortunately on listening even more carefully, though I already loved that song, it is completely obvious that Paloma sings and would sing 'laydeee' not 'laydair'. Suits her sort of modern-vintage voice style better. Laydair is a bit 80s.
A favourite pronunciation of mine is 80s innovator Annie Lenox's powerful sing of 'ee-mow-shun' in 'Here comes the rain again'.

Apartment Hunt 1 

So getting off at Atlantic Avenue: yeuk! garbage everywhere, horrible traffic and not even tall buildings to make it interesting. Cheap and nasty shops. Not inspiring. Still, onwards. I rented a bike from 'Bike Brooklyn', served by a muscly thin girl with a kind face and those huge round disk earrings that stretch you lobes out like an African tribal lady. Simple and efficient to rent a bike and had to have it back by 4pm. Tight but perfect for my needs.

Brooklyn is cheaper than Manhattan. It attracts the young arty crowd. It is the 14th biggest 'city' in USA. It was once the biggest.

So I got to the first place through the huge Prospect Park by 12.30 - half hour after the open house session began. A Spanish New Yorker was at the door - very confident Spanish New York accent, very routine handshake, the common very insincere enthusiasm to meet me, the darkest black shiniest hair imaginable, and a cellphone for a left hand. Told me to look around. I did. Place is clean and painted but ugly. The view of the 'grass' inbetween the flats depressing as hell: garbage strewn, uncreative. Bad. She thought this too. She wouldn't live there. But the place is on for $1100. Cheap for 5 mins to the park. Once other people had left, she said this is where not so well-off people live. It's affordable but still safe. It's not fancy - there is no coffee shops - you need to take a ride to have brunch and meet friends. And she basically sold living on the upper east side near Central Park to me upon knowing 'what I make'. She said why live here?

Next place was on the corner of a very long graffiti'd street with only closing down car repair lots showing any life - pretty depressing. There was a grungy yard on the opposite corner with scary distorted music playing from a ghetto blaster perched on a red workman's truck. Then I noticed in the chicken-fenced yard were piles and piles of used jeans under plastic (it had been raining) - with a few people rummaging. Black people - it looked cool. I began to like the edgyness, even the music. And this was near where I stayed last year which felt poor but with its own dignity.

Anyways, the block for rent had balloons outside and candles on the stairway. The broker had to talk me up the stairs on cellphone as the entrance seemed like a to a black Christian party to me. I couldn't believe I was in the right doorway - the balloons and candles gave a very strange impression. So the phone goes dead as I reach the top of the stairs. And I am greeted by....a young Chaka Khan! What a body! What hair extensions! What nails! What a white suit!

And as she lead me into the kitchen of flat number 1, I could see the project. There was a rental price list printout pile next to laptop on kitchen table - lady Khan gave me one to hold as we walked around. And one of a bunch of black guys, who were evidently part of the business too, all very smartly dressed (again seemed Christian? I learnt apparently not) greeted me with sushi from a fancy tray. I took a delicious avacado piece. And then I got the tour of all of the dark brown and white themed flats - all identically newly kitted out with shiny veneer: gloss-painted over fireplaces - rather choked with paint really, huge super-shiny but perhaps cheap (too much varnish!) laminate floors, smell of paint everywhere and huge cooker and heavy heavy fake marble sink unit. Not nice views from windows. Stange warped leaning floors - ideal for skate-boarding. And I could see that they were launching this project - 10 or so flats hewn out of an old block. Nice new veneer but not nice - soulless and the partitioning of the flats made them odd shapes. They had named the flats 'Bergen Manor'. Manor my arse. Or rather Chaka Khan's. But I could not see myself there and so enjoyed the Chaka show instead, one feature of which was to include the word 'definitely' before the verb in every sentence. It didn't definitely make me definitely want to buy.

This happened to be the first time I've interacted with black folks in a professional context I think. I get the sense that there is more integration in American society than in London. Fascinating.

'Seems like a party' I said as I left with another sushi piece. 'It is!' said Chaka.

ps. Blog title is from Paloma Faith's 'New York'
pps. Click on '0 Comments' to comment if you fancy it

Broccoli Surprise

The office in New York City is bigger but not better than in London. The fish tanks are not so prominent, there are only 2 computer screens per desk. There is more of the battery hen or goldfish about each employee, it being quite so big. On the other hand the atmosphere is more lively, you get to stroll past company celebrities (its pioneers), and the view from the 23rd floor (of 30 floors) where I have landed, goes a long way. I realized the view especially when talking to one colleague who lives on the 'upper west side'.
We'll call him Jonah. Jonah asked me where I was looking to live. And he indicated with his finger the direction in which he lived. Now I guess it is natural to know which direction things lie but with the monstrosity of the city and the newness and bigness of the office itself, I had no clue. So I was quite impressed that he had such a clean handle on where his flat was - which admittedly turned out to be not that far away.
He pointed out of the window - of which there are very many and huge too, so that if you are sat by the window, to your side is a shear drop to the streets below of toy yellow cabs and scurrying ants. It is quite something. You feel in the sky. We have a neighbouring cylindrical building which rises up like a giant magic wand. It pokes up next to us, so near yet so far, with its tapering summit yielding just a few topmost very lonely windows which are strange to observe.
And then the city stretches on with its straight rows and orderly higgle of bright grey legoland sky-rises for ever and ever. It's stunning, especially through the everso clean glass, sometimes with mist around the tops, sometimes soaring aeroplane-ride blue skies, always a concrete jungle.
So Jonah indicated over to the left. And then I saw it. Sure enough there is a clean edge to the grey jungle yielding to a neat rectangle of ....broccoli! Central Park! All present and correct. And knowing that the park stretches off to the north of us, you don't have to be Scott of the Antarctic to get that on the right of the broccoli is the upper east side. And on the left, you got it, the upper west.
And the other near-to skyscrapers have gaps between them that swing and sway with your mind. They are spiderman. They are 911.
I dialled 911 on my second day. Trying to reach a UK mortgage company, I knew that 0044 was the UK code. But I also knew that 91 gets me an outside line and that 011 got me outside of the US. Plus I knew that zeros are sometimes meant to be chopped. So you do the math...you can guess what happened. I felt like a prize dick saying to the alert, services voice on the line "heh, er, no everything is fine...heh."
Thankfully little else has gone wrong at work, only the same things as everyone else. Namely mistiming entry or exit to the building so that using the lifts is the same as catching the metro: you have to wait as they come and go full of bodies, sometimes as long as 10 minutes if you are not assertive! The elevator becomes part of the commute and makes you think twice about going to get snacks intraday. And the snacks are like the London office in the main with Graham crackers instead of McVities digestives and the addition of blue corn chips. And I dig that unlike in Larndin, the mix of chopped raw veg put out twice a day (in a huge jolly goldfish bowl - meant to be ironic?) includes cherry tomatoes, peppers, carrots, cukes, celery but never cauliflower and never ...broccoli.
I'll post some pictures once camera is part of my daily paraphernalia. Love to all.