The Sharks and the Jets may no longer pachanga down the West Side, but don’t let that fool you: New York City is still a cutthroat place.
We push on the subway, we death stare at tourists, and according to reports from the trenches, we are the meanest online daters in the history of the world. Right, and we committed 8 murders in the last week alone.
None of that (well, except the death toll) compares to the city’s most brutal experience of all: apartment hunting.
Welcome to my nightmare. Also, welcome to my spring.
Our lease is coming due June 1, and with the management company hiking our rent 12 percent next year without having ever fixed a single problem, my boyfriend and I are weighing our options.
Do we stay put and grow increasingly resentful that our dining room dimmer light is nothing more than a frayed wire sticking precariously out of a broken electrical socket, even though we first reported it last May? Or do we barrel head first into the ruthless world of NYC real estate brokers, fees, debt and tears?
Option C: We skip town and live off the grid in Maine.
The downside of moving is literally thousands of dollars down, a lot of weekends searching, and no guarantee we’ll find something better, within our budget, that’s still close to work and running paths and Ben’s favorite basset hound neighbor.
The plus side is the possibility we find a real runner’s dream of an apartment with a washing machine to clean all my sweaty spandex and a giant tub for taking icebaths and an elevator for post-long runs and a dishwasher to collect the cups I leave around like I’m in the penultimate scene of M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs.
What would you do? More specifically, do you have a NYC apartment you’d like to give us on June 1?