New York living 101 – finding a home

IT is practically an ironclad rule, that all those who arrive in New York must overcome a common obstacle – finding an apartment. A large percentage of New Yorkers are not native to these parts. And one of the experiences that binds them to their fellow Gotham dwellers is the harrowing experience of finding a space to call home, in a city where the number of people searching for an apartment far outnumbers the number that are available. But everyone gets through it. Afterwards, they laugh about it, remembering what an awful experience they had. So you can imagine the suspicious looks and veiled jealous glances I received when people learned that I had somehow bypassed this rite of passage. Panicked at the memory of a similar house-hunting experience in London, in the weeks before I moved to New York, I trawled websites and called in every contact I had to try and find a soft place to land. It was a stressful time, but my search bore good fruit, and in the end I found myself the lucky recipient of a third-party favour. A friend of a distant cousin in New Jersey would be in Israel for four months, and I was offered their apartment to sublet. And this was no ordinary apartment. For a fraction of what it should have cost, I was permitted to live in a swish downtown building, complete with a team of doormen and attendants who work around the clock, a laundry, gym and drycleaners in the basement, a library in the luscious lobby and the rumour that a certain former mayor was a resident. The apartment itself was a dusty old studio and not particularly flash, but it was wonderfully sufficient and located right on Washington Square Park, in the heart of Greenwich Village. I learned later that I had been offered this prize by the friend as a way of thanking my cousin, who had been particularly kind to them during a bout of illness. I was on top of the world in those first weeks. I would wake up every morning grinning and step out into my world (Manhattan – I could hardly believe it). I was stupidly happy, all the time. But just as all good things must end, so did my tenure in The Village and it was time to go apartment hunting – that dreaded New York sport. It was every bit as awful as they say. In Australia, punters front up at a handful of estate agents’ offices, procure keys, view apartments, lodge applications and cross their fingers. It’s fairly simple. If there is a fee for listing the apartment, the renter wouldn’t know (or care) about it. It’s taken care of by the landlord (that is, the guy with the most money). In New York, it’s far more complex. Any given apartment can be listed by multiple brokers who compete to show it to potential renters. If their client takes the place, they are on the receiving end of a handsome broker’s fee – 12-15 per cent of the first year’s rent. Sometimes they settle for the equivalent for a month’s rent. To an Australian, this arrangement is preposterous! Why does it happen? Because of that pesky old chestnut, supply and demand. There’s no need for landlords to pay brokers when there are desperate souls lining up around the block to take that patch of Manhattan real estate off their hands. My search for an apartment was typical. After viewing a few dives alone, I pounded the pavement with two separate brokers for seven hours one afternoon. The first broker took me to a couple of places so smelly I wouldn’t leave my dog there, let alone pay top dollar to live in. Then there were the tiny places, the places with no light and the ones where you wonder how many murders have taken place in the building. I saw one place where the entire apartment slanted down at an angle. It was like being in a cartoon. I won’t lie to you – the thought of moving back to Bondi crossed my mind. But just as I was almost ready to quit the game, we found it. Nothing too fancy, but exactly what I needed: a space that inspired me. Not in the best neighbourhood, but not in the worst. It had one big window, an exposed brick wall and a working fireplace. It was small, but my mind’s eye was already calculating where my fictitious furniture would go. And just like that, I had leapt over my first hurdle and properly arrived.