You see your apartment being discussed in a real estate blog as if it’s a loin of pork, only its tenderloin. (You really don’t know meat so the metaphor might be weird but the only apt comparison is a “side of meat.)
They don’t get the final price right but you can’t comment. You’re not sure why but it doesn’t seem right to talk about something you own. Compulsively reading this blog has sealed your decision. The commenters represent the worst of New York; the people who hang around fires to kibbutz about the burnt decor, step over the bodies, remark on their condition, and….Really they’re people who would run to help you. You know that about New Yorkers. You’re trying desperately to rationalize. Not because you think you made a bad decision but because it is a bind decision. Your life is going to change big time–and you’re not the least bit a celebrity and still people talk about your apartment.
You so want to spring to your own defense but you don’t.
You want to tell the person who was turned down flat for offering too little money, the people who will own it offered considerably more money. It wasn’t anything about her personally. You never even met her. And told the realtors not to tell you about offers for so little money. Or the offers from people who couldn’t pass the board. In the end there were many bids. Life’s strange and getting stranger.
Yet if you were buying in New York you would be very glad for the resources. You would delve into comps like nobody before. You would know every apartment on the market in a X geographic area with Y financials. But as a seller….
I have an intro to a chapter in this book I will talk more about it later.
If I had known what a blog was, had been home and had a laptop with a router I could have blogged about the blackout. But I was in Brighton Beach with my friend who since sold her apartment for mega money–though it’s not as nice as mine–and it took us 9 hours to get home.
It took me an extra half hour after we walked to Sheepshead Bay, took two buses to the Brooklyn Bridge–watched the Mayor greet all the people going to Brooklyn, saw many groups of people have parties in Tribeca, Soho and The Village have parties. She lived in the Far West Village. I bribed a cab driver to take me to the Upper West Side. My super, the doormen and some residents were smoking cigarettes outside. I asked if anybody had an extra lighter or matches so I could have light walking up nine flights of steps. Nobody would give me any
That wasn’t the hard part. It was finding my apartment in pitch dark. I had no idea where I was–it took me many tries and 20 minutes. I felt so guilty that I had sometimes been impatient in reality with my mother who had gone blind from macular degeneration, and more times in my thoughts.
I missed the blackout of 77 when I was young, lived on the first floor, arrived home just as the lights went out, and spent the next day getting drunk with my best friend then Shelby as every bar was giving away food and liquor.
But I would have never been in Brighton Beach then and the bus went through neighborhoods I couldn’t have been in, in 77. Instead of looting people were directing traffic and giving out water