Sunday, January 26, 2014
It has been a long time since New York City has seen a winter as cold as this one, with temperatures only slightly above 0 degrees Farenheit predicted for next week. Last week was not much warmer, making searching for an apartment in northern Manhattan more of a trek than a visit. I had two apartments to see, and planned to visit apartment buildings that looked attractive, searching for a super who might tell me what was about to become available for rent.
Of the two apartments which I had appointments to see, the first one was out of my price range, $3995 a month, and advertised as a "rare opening here totally gut renovated never lived in giant 3 bedroom with private entrance and really no fee". The apartment was listed as being on Cabrini Avenue, which was my main reason for wanting to see it, Cabrini Avenue being very attractive at its northern end by Fort Tryon Park.
I'll let the listing in "Craig's List" tell the story:
This apartment is amazing! It is located on Cabrini Avenue just one block to the A express train stop on 175! It is totally renovated with brand new shiny hardwood floors, dimmer lights, exposed brick, stainless steel appliances in the kitchen with backsplash walls in the kitchen and bathroom, tons of counter and cabinet space, beautiful bathroom, and closets in every bedroom! Each bedroom is huge and fits a king/queen size bed! High ceilings! Private entrance on Cabrini Avenue - Quiet block! Pet Friendly Heat and hot water included in the rent! View of the George Washington Bridge! Really no fee by owner! Easy approval in 15 minutes!"
It turns out the apartment was on 177th Street, not Cabrini Avenue, and the view was from a maisonette a few feet from the highway leading to the George Washington Bridge. The maisonette had two doors --one a metal grill-- that have to be locked and unlocked to enter the apartment. Not a savory proposition on a block where flight after a drive-by robbery is easy.
Isabella, the landlord's agent, was unfazed when I pointed out that the total square feet in the apartment was less than in my one bedroom further south:
"I understand, but there will be someone for whom it is right", she said politely.
"A crack dealer, perhaps?" was what I was thinking, but didn't say.
The second apartment was in my price range, $1490 a month. The apartment is at 121 Vermilyea Avenue between 204th and 205th Streets, perpendicular to a lively thoroughfare with Dominican flags prominently displayed. The block itself has some new construction and the buildings are all low-height. However, I notice two young men in sweatshirts hanging out in front of a newsdealer's across the street and wonder about how much drug trafficking takes place on the block.
I stop a young man of Hispanic appearance and ask him about the neighborhood. "Esta bien" ("It's fine") he tells me, but when I ask about whether there are many drug sales on the block, he quickly says goodbye. (Perhaps the reason the man took off so quickly was because he thought I was an undercover cop.)
The hour of noon strikes, but the broker is a no-show. The building door is metal with a grill over the window insert and none too appealing. Having come this far, though, I want to see if I can figure out where the apartment, described as "Amazing one bedroom - private garden - state of the art finishes" is. A middle-aged couple exiting the building give me my chance.
"Ese apartamento no vale para nada, peru le puedo mostrar el lugar" ("That apartment is not worth anything, but I can show you where it is located"), says the wife. We walk down down the front stairs and then turn right to face a rectangular opening in the building's facade with stairs descending. We walk into the outdoor space where the garbage is collected at the back of which is a metal door.
"The apartment's there, but I don't have the key, perhaps the super does," my new friend says to me. So we walk into the basement, where the super is painting. He has no key either, so we leave. I ask my gracious host about the neighborhood:
"I've lived here 23 years and its better, but…." She confirms that drug trafficking still goes on and that the two fellows I saw across the street were probably local drug dealers. Her husband, an older, burly man in a black leather jacket shakes his head in agreement. She is quite cheerful and friendly and I cannot thank her enough for her kindness in speaking to me so frankly.
So I've struck out twice, but undaunted, decide to head towards the Bakerfield Apartments, my favorite location in Inwood. Cheek-by-jowl with the Columbia Stadium, the Harlem River and Inwood Hill Park, the views from the doorstep of this low-rise pre-war building are spectacular. The confluence of Inwood Hill Park, the last old-growth forest in the City (dating to the time of the Lenape Indians); the Harlem River and the bridge across it to Riverdale, make for extraordinary vistas. Perhaps the super will be in and will know of any apartments coming up for rental.
The super, a strapping Montenegran named "Beco", is in, and there is an apartment, 2B, about to be renovated and made ready for rental by March 1. Beco takes me up there: the apartment is half the size of mine and will rent for $1695 a month and there will be a broker's fee of $2500. The apartment has a sunken living room, four windows facing south and a bedroom. There is a built-in bookshelf with an arched top. Clearly, the apartment was designed with attention to detail.
I am interested. The only issue is that the building does not allow dogs other than those of tenants already living there. Beco, is adamant: "No dogs!", he says in his thickly accented English, getting up from his chair as he speaks, as if to push me out the door. Which is when I suggest that he speak to his fellow-Montenegran, the super in my building, a well-known figure in Montenegran circles in New York. I manage to get the super on the phone and explain I need a reference: I pass the phone to Beco and the two men unleash a torrent of Serbo-Croatian. I can see by the way Beco's face lights up as he talks and laughs with my super that a dog is not going to be a problem. When Beco gets off the phone he slaps me hard on the back and says,
"No problem! You can bring five dogs!" The deal is done. I return to Morningside Heights musing on my good fortune and the happy coincidence that the two supers knew each other. If I want to sell my apartment and move into the available Bakerfield Apartment I should be able to do so, by March 1, perhaps.
And in the end, I pull the plug on the sale of the apartment and the rental. Lying awake in bed Thursday night, thinking about living in a much smaller apartment facing the parking lot of the building and paying $200 more to live further away from all the cultural attractions I depend on seems unthinkable, however much money I might recoup from the sale of my apartment here.
It is turning out to be harder to leave my home of twenty-five years than I could have ever imagined. Anyway, with my apartment free of clutter, I am essentially living in a new environment and it is agreeable. I am going to stay, hanging on to my life here for as long as I can.
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