Moving house — most stressful?
We all know that statistic — that moving house is the third most traumatic life experience you can have after death of a loved one and divorce (I even checked the fact; let’s believe the NS). Blissfully ignoring this stat I’ve moved house four times in the past year-and-a-half and am about to depart for a fifth new home. When I told a prospective housemate about it he said this meant I was a nomad. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
In London and probably Dublin too, moving house is tough, but New York takes the cake. Real estate has a grand narrative here; it’s a site of tragedy and (less often) comedy. There are gossip blogs about it, local blogs, newspaper sections, and specialist blogs, all testifying to the passions that lie within the New York housing market.
In the past moving has stressed me out but this time I was determined to stay calm; which was a good thing. Let me tell you a few stories.
I saw several places before making my decision. The third was a commune/co-op where food and chores were shared among six occupants. Everyone was a member of the Park Slope Food Coop. There were two guys and four girls. The house was a gorgeous Park Slope brownstone with original 19th century features. A little old lady owned it and it had been a commune since the 70s. At $800 per month including bills it was a steal, for New York. And it wasn’t a cult (I asked). So far, so innocuous.
One of the two men, tall and affable, gave me the tour. Then I went downstairs to the kitchen where seven or eight other prospective housemates were milling around with anxious eyes. We each had to make sure to speak to each of the five housemates because if we didn’t we’d automatically be disqualified. That was more or less fine, until one girl said to me: “So! Tell me about yourself.” It was too abrupt, and job-interview-like. But, of course, worse was to follow. We were given sheets of paper to fill out, with five or six different questions, including “What are the strengths and skills you’d bring to this house?” and “Why should we choose you?” Then, in case we were not memorable, each of us had to stand, holding a piece of paper with our name on it to our chest, while one of the housemates took a photo.
So I didn’t get that room. I got one much nicer, in an artists’ commune in a converted factory in Prospect Heights — here’s a pic:
When I gave the landlord, who will be a housemate, my deposit last weekend he said, “Oh, I think the roof leaks by the way. Did I mention that?” He hadn’t. But I am hopeful.
I kept a record of the weirdest housing ads I found on craigslist. Here are two you might enjoy.
[I got the pic from Brownstoner.com]