I am telling myself: This is what the money is for. We will get to see family. We will get to say a proper farewell to my uncle, who died very suddenly. We will set a good example for Babygirl, maybe, that this is the kind of thing we splurge on.
MIKE: “I like my apartment, but I don’t love it.” ESTER: “Have you ever loved an apartment?”
What becomes immediately obvious, when you start apartment hunting, is that there are no apartments.
A home named after Charlotte Bronte that was built in the 1920s in the style of an Italian villa, and it’s been on the market for a long time, and it’s reasonably priced?
Having lived in New York City for nearly a decade (in six separate residences), I’m convinced that the only variety of New York apartment hunt is the soul-crushingly terrible one.
“You have six months to find your own place,” my godmother, Kimmie, says.
I went to an open house for an apartment this weekend, because the money is hypothetically an apartment fund, but in New York I might as well be wishing for a unicorn.