The inevitable apartment hunt has begun.
And by begun, I mean I’ve started reading and searching and emailing and successfully freaking myself out that I’ll be sleeping in the back of a U-haul with all my worldly possessions in cardboard boxes.
Everyone has been amazing, of course. People I barely know (and friends cheering me on!) are sending emails on my behalf, forwarding listings and offering words of wisdom. I’m grateful, and when something finally breaks and I’m not living in the back of a U-haul, I will buy all those people a beer. And a big ol’ triangle slice of New York pizza, the kind you fold in half to eat.
Since rentals go so fast in the city, there’s no point in me getting attached to any listings I see now, when I won’t be in town to view anything until next week. Instead, I’m using the time to research the kind of places, the types of neighborhoods I might be able to afford. And I’m reading up on what to know going into the renting process. Broker’s fees are exorbitant. Craigslist is 99% bunk. Landlords require your first born to even consider renting to you. No, seriously – look at this list.
I thought planning a trip to the Asian sub-continent was difficult. Looking for a place to live in NYC makes that adventure look like a dream.
But it is, I keep being told by people who know, a badge of honor. Everyone who now calls themselves a New Yorker has gone through it and lived to tell the tale. I’ll find a place – it may be temporary, it may be as small as a walk-in closet, but I’ll find a place. And when I do, I imagine it’ll be like what I’ve heard having a newborn is like. So adorable, so perfect it’ll have been worth all the swollen ankles, back aches and morning sickness.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.