Open house time (a.k.a. the sound of my heart breaking)
Week No. 2 of my
search: Wanting to avoid another blind side, I decided to contact an agent whom
I’d interviewed for a real estate story some time ago. He had offered his
services should I ever be in the buyer’s market. I sent Sidney an email and
received a prompt response. His suggestion: send links of listings I liked and
based on that, he’d generate an open house schedule for me.
It wasn’t hard
to find aspirational but practical apartments. I sent several links sourced from Craigslist in Harlem
and the Heights, and the next day I had his listings. I looked them up online
before deciding on four open houses for Sunday.
Chris, a friend miraculously willing to view every apartment with me, met me at the
first address -- a one-bedroom, one-bath prewar for about $300K on Riverside Drive near 157th Street, incidentally catercorner from
the previous week’s disastrous viewing.
Upon our arrival we were confronted with a
sign-in sheet and a dilemma: Whom do I sign in as my broker? I didn’t have a
formal relationship with Sidney yet, and by signing in with him, am I legally
committed? To what, exactly? What, if any, kind of financial obligation would I have? Neither
of us knew, so I left that portion blank and we entered.
The apartment
was furnished or, rather, “staged” with West Elm-style furniture that was
neither offensive nor engaging—just enough to guide the imagination without
impressing upon it. People skirted around us, peering inside cabinets and
closets.
One smartly dressed couple surveyed the living room, working in tandem
with a tape measure and notebook. Another bedraggled pair looked like they
couldn’t afford a pop-up storage shed (we would see lots of such curiosity
seekers over the next several months).
Though it seemed
spacious, the entryways, doors and windows broke up the contiguous wall space;
I couldn’t mentally position my surface-hogging furnishings — a piano, Art Deco
secretary and some 150 square feet of books.
“How often do
you play the piano or read?” Chris asked me. Her practicality has helped me
dodge many a bullet over our 23-year friendship, but suggesting I jettison some
books or my piano hurt.
An agent
approached us.
“Hi, I’m Richard, can I show you around?” said the young, friendly-but-not-polished agent. Not (overtly) a shark. After we looked around, he offered to show us another apartment around the corner. This, we would learn, was Realtor M.O.
He escorted us around the corner to 835 Riverside Drive, a condominium in mid-conversion.
We entered a
museum-quality lobby: Italian marble walls and floors, stately pillars and
etched details. Richard said he lived in the building and that it was comprised of friendly long-time renters and new
owners. All good.
But the
one-bedroom apartment on the second floor was anti-climatic.The bedroom walls were painted
brown, and with the white-covered bed stuffed in like a huge marshmallow, it
reminded me of a giant S’more. I couldn’t figure out if the rooms were small or if the furniture was oversized. I pulled aside the dark curtains for the view.
Brick wall. Dealbreaker.
But we didn’t
want to deflate poor, eager Richard, who obviously got stuck with the lemon
listings, so we took his card and promised to be in touch. As we boarded the
elevator, we saw a posting for another open house in the building. We looked at
each other, shrugged “Why not?” and hit 6 instead of L.
We entered apartment 6A via a long dark
corridor, the end of which opened into a bright, open space. The large room was
split by French doors, two windows on each side of the separation faced
treetops and open sky. A broad street provided an ample canyon so the building
across the street was more a backdrop than a nosy neighbor.
It was romantic
and gracious like a shabby-chic Paris loft in a gentrified enclave. A grand
piano filled half of the dining room, filling me with joy. The bedroom
was large, well-lit with a makeshift closet. The kitchen and bathroom were
wrecked, but that didn’t dissuade me. Such potential! Such a fixer-upper! Such
great bones! My brain filled with real estate jargon and I believed every word.
Then we noticed
the floor. I grew up in 19th century houses where lopsided floors were part of the
quirky antique charm. But the floor in my pseudo-Euro charmer was so sloped
that a ball could roll from one end to the other, picking up a pretty good
clip. I asked an agent for an estimate on fixing it. He was rushing a
couple through; I could see they had a checkbook.
“I don’t know,
$25,000? $50,000? You’ll have to come back with your contractor,” he said.
Crack. The sound
of my heart breaking. And it was only apartment No. 3.
We turned to
leave. The agent rushed up behind us, voice dropped, “But if you wait
five minutes, I can show you something special on the fourth floor.”
I just didn't want to be railroaded into seeing other places, not without proper agent representation, so we scurried out the door before being taken on yet another detour.
It was only on the subway we realized that we had missed the rest of open houses on Sidney’s list. Next week, I vowed, I would not come without an agent of my own.
Next time:
“J’adore the Heights"
Elle Bee is a lifelong renter currently in the process of buying a Brooklyn apartment. She'll take us behind the drama in her new bi-weekly column, Diary of a First-time Buyer.
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