I’m apartment hunting in NYC for the first time in 15 years

And it’s just as bad as I remember.

Before moving into my current Brooklyn apartment, I knew better than to get attached to any living space. A New York City apartment was a place to sleep, store your stuff, and house out-of-town visitors. You didn’t get too comfortable—any holes in the walls or paint colors besides standard issue “eggshell” could jeopardize your security deposit, which you were counting on for the next move. I avoided two-year leases, dutifully moving every 12-36 months when my commute shifted or roommate situation changed or the ceiling above my bed fell in (true story).

But then my husband (boyfriend, at the time) and I found our current place. It was a little more expensive, further away from our favorite restaurants and bars (a pre-kid priority that seems so foreign now), and we’d be losing our outdoor space, a shared cement “courtyard” with no air circulation. But this apartment was newly renovated! With stainless steel appliances! Including a dishwasher! And an (albeit ancient) washer/dryer set-up in the basement! No more handwashing coffee cups. No more schlepping our dirty clothes to the laundromat. The hardwood floors were unmarked, and everything still smelled like fresh paint. I couldn’t believe our luck.

Fifteen years and one kid later, we’re still here. At least, for the time being. A few weeks ago, the landlord left a message wanting to talk, and a part of me knew this wasn’t about draining the boiler or putting out the garbage cans on trash night (two tasks my husband has taken on as de facto super for the building). I had a feeling it was the worst news you can deliver to a long-time renter in a desirable NYC neighborhood: the building was for sale.

Unfortunately, I was right, and things were moving quickly. I’d barely had a chance to pull up StreetEasy.com before a real estate broker was walking through my living room and talking about how nicely everything would photograph for the listing. I blinked and prospective buyers were apologetically tiptoeing through our front door and peering into my son’s room while I stood awkwardly in the kitchen pretending to be OK with it.

But I have to be OK with it. This isn’t my house, even though, against my better judgment, I’ve made it my home. We’ve more than settled in, with artwork on the walls, a pile of shoes by the door, and thousands of memories tucked into every corner.

The only thing worse than leaving this place behind is the job of looking for another apartment. I’d like to say that, after a decade and a half of steady housing, I’d forgotten how utterly ridiculous it is. But just a few clicks in and it’s all coming back to me.

Apparently, some things are timeless, like:

The broker bait and switch

This is when there’s an actually sort of decent place that’s within your budget. You excitedly email the broker to ask about a show and—darn, wouldn’t ya know it! —someone JUST put a deposit down. But there is this slightly more expensive railroad apartment with no windows just around the corner…

“Nice to meet you. What’s your income and credit score?”

You can still expect the financial equivalent of full-body cavity search before someone bothers to answer your questions about square footage.

These cabinets

And that one above the kitchen sink never fully closes.

In 1995, I’m guessing, Home Depot had a sale that they exclusively marketed to New York City landlords and everybody’s contractor went out and bought them. The color is somewhere between “maple” and “natural peanut butter/ dog diarrhea,” and each cupboard is adorned with an impossible-to-clean groove designed for collecting cooking grease and dust. For better or worse, these little mice condos are still hanging all across the boroughs and, chances are, if you’re a New York resident, you’ve peeled old contact paper out of something comparable.

That “Am I being Punk’d” feeling

At some point, you will start to wonder if you’ve unsuspectingly wandered onto an unscripted TV show upon which the entire premise hinges on the limits of either your embarrassment or patience.

Just recently we rushed out to see a promising apartment only to find the broker locked out. The story: the current tenant’s cat dragged the spare keys, which were placed under the welcome mat, into the apartment through the front door, and no one had a spare. “I can show you a video, though,” he said, offering us his phone. Also, he “didn’t know” the square footage. That’s when I started looking for cameras.

Classic broker parlance

“Cozy” = small

“Spacious” = slightly less small

“Sun-filled” = there’s a window

“Steps to restaurants, coffee shops, and laundromats” = no washer/dryer in the building

“Ideal for a family” = railroad, and one bedroom is only big enough for a toddler

That said, some things are different.

AI furnishings

Back in the day, the fisheye lens was the dirtiest photography trick available. But now brokers are using some program or filter to overlay photos with FAKE FURNISHINGS to, at best, help renters imagine how they might utilize the space. But really, it’s just a way to make a room seem bigger and cover up dingy walls, bad lighting, and scuffed up floors.

Most listings use a pretty standard formula. For bedrooms: a tidy bed with 2-3 layers of pillows and multiple accent throws, at least one piece of framed abstract art/photography, and matching, mid-century modern-inspired side tables.

“Ideal for a family of peal-and-stick colorforms.”

Living/dining areas are similarly stark, modern, and brightly lit. Not an empty glass, pile of mail, or sign of human life in sight!

I think the view of the enchanted garden is kind of a giveaway.

But then you have the “more is more” realtors who take their inspo from Pee Wee’s playhouse.

Anyone else smell burning toast?

Apartments have gotten… smaller?

It seems like it would be impossible, but I’m not the only one who’s noticed this. (And it’s not like we’re accustomed to tons of space.) Newer buildings have added the amenities New York renters have been dying for—dishwashers, in-unit laundry, maybe a roof deck—but at the expense of closets and floor space. Like, you can easily wash your clothes, but you better not have more than one Ikea dresser’s worth. There’s a living/dining room, but it’s actually a living OR dining room. Choose a couch OR a table and chairs, because there isn’t room for both. Weirdly, the bathroom is a normal size, so maybe try mounting the TV in there?

This shit isn’t fun anymore

This one’s specific to me. As much as I trash-talk the New York renting experience, I used to feel a sense of excitement when it was time to move on. It was a little buried beneath cynicism and the anxiety of coming up with first/last/deposit, but there was a little thrill at the prospect of finding a needle in a haystack. And historically, most of my moves were on my own terms and upward in some way. Moving from student housing into my first real apartment in Brooklyn. Moving from Brooklyn into Manhattan. Moving back to Brooklyn with my boyfriend, and then two more times together.

Maybe it’s just the difference between leaving a place you’ve lived for one year versus a home you’ve kept for 15.

Maybe I’m just older and more resistant to change.

“Maybe it’s time to buy?” – That’s what the realtor said to me as she did her first walk-through of our apartment, mentally calculating its value and writing the listing copy in her head.

Great idea. Wish I’d thought of that.

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