Moving to the Suburbs

Good Night, 82d Street

June 23, 2009 by Joseph Rand

I remember the first time I saw this apartment. August 1994. I had been looking for about six months, and actually had seen an apartment in the building the first time I went out with a broker. But Iwasn’t ready to pull the trigger the first time out, and someone else got it.

Then it happened that another apartment in the building came up for sale, which is a little funny considering that there were only four units in the building — a four story townhouse on 82d between Columbus and Central Park West. This apartment was on the fourth floor, with a roof deck. Owned by a nice couple, Ben and Susan, with their young child. (As I wrote this, I looked Ben up, he’s still a doctor in Manhattan, actually wrote a book — the scary part is when I think about the young child who was playing when I saw the apartment the first time, who’s probably close to college by now).

One bedroom. One bath. Nice kitchen. Brick walls, wood floors, fireplace. That’s what I wanted. The bonus was a spiral staircase from the bedroom going up to a private wood deck that I could already see filled with various friends and potential female acquaintances. Perfect bachelor pad, I thought. Had an accepted offer three days later, no second thoughts.

But the “bachelor pad” thing didn’t really work out. I met the woman who would later (much later) become my wife four days after I first saw the apartment, spent an hour at dinner sketching out the layout on napkins at a restaurant in Little Italy. By the time I actually moved into the place in December, we were serious and she was helping me shop for furniture.

Ten years later, as we were thinking about getting a larger place, the joys of 600 square feet in a fourth-floor walkup having slightly faded, we found out that the couple who lived below us were thinking of selling. We bought their place, combined it with ours, built a proper room on the roof. Actually created something. An apartment we helped design, one that was unequivocally and indisputably ours. Until now.

So I’ve been in the building since 1994, except for two years in California for school, and six months in the renovation exile in Suma. A little math — 15 years, minus 2.5 years. That’s almost 5,000 days, over 700 weeks, 162 months. One and a half Clinton administrations, two Bushes, and a small piece of Obama. Three mayors, four governors, the invention of the internet, the rise of hip-hop, 9/11, a blackout, and a bunch of other stuff. I met my wife the week I saw it, fell in love with her living here, married her 20 blocks away.

The building was very good to me. I will miss her.

Filed Under: Advice, Living in Manhattan, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs Tagged With: Apartment, Manhattan, Moving to the Suburbs

So this is it.

June 22, 2009 by Joseph Rand

So this is it.

It wasn’t “real” until now. It hadn’t really hit home. I’ve been writing about it, and talking about it, and explaining why we’re leaving, and making lists of all the things I wanted to do before we left (and doing some of them), and savoring all the “lasts” we were doing (the last party, the last trip to the park, the last Sunday dinner, etc.), and looking at new homes, and doing all the stuff you need to do to move.

But it still wasn’t real until I saw the empty room today. The movers came over today to pack up, with the actual move tomorrow. But they moved a lot of stuff around, leaving one of our rooms completely empty. I hadn’t seen it like that since we moved into the apartment (after our renovation) four years ago. I hadn’t seen my apartment empty.

It looked wierd.

Filed Under: Living in Manhattan, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs Tagged With: Moving to the Suburbs

Why Movers Hate Me

June 22, 2009 by Joseph Rand

You know who hates my stairs, the three flights leading up to my apartment?

Everyone.

Like, for example, every guest I’ve ever had. People show up here for parties, and as they reach the main level landing they invariably say something clever along the lines of “Whew.” Usually, it’s a call for a drink, very quickly, since the apparently Everest-like climb has made them extremely thirsty.

Then they realize that if they want to go to the roofdeck, it’s another two flights. Usually they sit down after that.

Another example: delivery guys. They trudge heavily up the stairs holding a rapidly cooling bag of food, and then shoot me a look that says, in Mandarin, “if I had known you wanted me to climb three flights of stairs, I would have opened up your moo shu and spit right into it.” So I overtip them.

But no one hates my stairs as much as movers. From the time that I moved in, I never ever had a mover who did not remark upon the heinousness of the task with which I have charged them — to carry heavy pieces of furniture and boxes up and down three or four flights of stairs. They stop now and then, breathe out heavily, and say, always, the same thing. “Man, that’s a lot of stairs.”

I understand their feelings (both legitimate and an unsubtle attempt to wheedle a larger gratuity at the end of the day), but it always bothers me a little. If it weren’t for the stairs, I wouldn’t need so many movers. The very fact that there are so many stairs is what has created the need for the employment.

It’s as if I was at the dentist, and he looked at me and said, “man, teeth. I am sooo sick of effing teeth.”

Filed Under: Best of, Humor, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs Tagged With: Moving to the Suburbs, Stairs

Moving Day

June 22, 2009 by Joseph Rand

Today is moving day.

It kind of came up on us. We pushed our buyer to stay this last week because we really weren’t ready to leave, so we got one final weekend in the city. That was great, because we had people over during the weekend and got to spend some extra quality time in the apartment.

The funny thing was that they were all looking at us like, “you’re really moving on Tuesday?” They couldn’t understand how we could be moving Tuesday and having parties on Friday with the place looking like it always has.

Here’s the secret — movers who do the packing for you. They literally come in, and do all the worst part of the moving process. Okay, not the “worst” part. The worst part is lifting heavy furniture and climbing my stairs. But the other really crappy part is taking every single dish, glass, platter, and other knick knacks and wrapping them in newspaper, then placing them in boxes, all of that stuff. And they do that.

I’m not sure when this magnificent service started, or who invented it, but to me it’s up there with the wheel, vanilla ice cream, The Housewives of New York City, pad thai, the orgasm, and fire as the great inventions of humankind.

Ask me how much they’re charging for it? I have no idea. Once I heard that they do this, I honestly didn’t care how much it cost. I would have paid anything. I would have named children after them. That’s how much I love this.

It reminds me of my adventures in juicing. The best way to appreciate the joy of juice purchased in a store is to buy yourself a juicer and try to make some orange juice. After 35 minutes of hideous labor, with the promise of another 15 fun minutes of cleaning a sharp screen filled with orange bits, all of which culminates in about a thimble of warm juice, you’re willing to go to Jamba Juice and perform sexual favors for the guy behind the counter to get something to drink.

Filed Under: Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs Tagged With: Juice, Moving to the Suburbs

Lessons for Exiles: How do you get city people to the suburbs?

June 1, 2009 by Joseph Rand

So my wife and I are looking for a new place in SUMA, and we’re telling our friends about it. Trying to get them excited, because we’d like to, you know, stay friends with them, and it would help if they were willing to, you know, visit us now and then.

It’s becoming increasingly clear that we’re never going to see them again.

And I really don’t blame them, because I never visited my friends who left the city. Once they left, it was like the Morlocks got them. We cast them from our minds. Chris and Kate have left 83rd and Third and they’re now in Rye, and let us not speak of them again….

So I was just as bad when I was on the cool, Manhattan side of that equation. I was never taking a weekend night to schlep out to Scarsdale or Montclair or God-Forbid-Long-Island to go visit someone who had the effrontery to leave this great city. Almost as if their choice to leave, by itself, rendered them somewhat less interesting.

I guess I deserve nothing better. I’m sure I’ll find nice, umm, replacement friends.

Anyway, I do have one idea. When I’ve discussed the houses we’ve been looking out, I’ve detected a common thread in the questions I get. No one seems interested in bedrooms or bathrooms or location or square footage or the type of oven we’ll have, but they seem very interested in one feature of some of the homes we’ve seen.

Whether it has a pool.

The pool is the equalizer, maybe the one thing that elevates a suburban household in the eyes of the sneering Manhattanariat. A pool for those hot days in the summer when your Hamptons share is in an off-week, or you’re afraid to go back and face the friend-of-a-friend that you woke up next to LAST weekend. A pool to escape Manhattan’s summer heat, a place to eat barbecue.

After all, the Hamptons are really just a suburb. I hate to tell that to all of you who just plunked down a month’s salary for four weekends in a five bedroom house on a one-acre lot in a cul-de-sac, but doesn’t that description sound kinda like a typical suburban house? So you’re spending all that income to drive out 4 or 5 hours on a Friday night to sleep in a bunk bed like a 12 year old, in a house that has as much relationship to the beach as Woody Allen, and you’re too good to come visit me a half hour north? Did I, ummm, mention that we have a pool?

Great, see you then.

Filed Under: Advice, Humor, Living in Manhattan, Living in the Suburbs, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs Tagged With: Friends, Pool

What I’m going to miss

April 30, 2009 by Joseph Rand

I’m going to miss Manhattan.

I’m going to miss the Upper West Side.

I’m going to miss the owner of my local dry cleaner, Ms. Kim, who has been in that store just about every time I’ve gone there in the past 15 years.

I’m going to miss the ability to get stone drunk, crawl into a cab, and be able to get safely home so long as I can properly recite my address. (I’ve always thought of getting a temporary tattoo on my forearm with my address on it, so I could just thrust my arm into the front seat and show it to him on particularly tough nights).

I’m going to miss the first really nice day of Spring, when the horrific winter weather breaks and everyone bolts into Central Park. The best park day of the year, because everyone is just so happy to be out of their apartments. And the crowdest, much more crowded than any summer weekend, since so many of those fools choose to drive five hours on Friday night to sit in what is actually a suburban house all weekend reading Hamptons magazine trying to find a hot party to go to and fooling themselves into thinking that they’re having a great time.

I’m going to miss being a 15 minute cab ride from the best live theater in the hemisphere.

I’m going to miss my neighbor Cindy, who owns the building next door to me, a four-story townhome that she bought in the early 70s for what she now gets every two months for renting the top two floors out.

I’m going to miss my wife’s “Menu book,” room service from like 50 restaurants, arranged by cuisine type (seriously).

I’m going to miss the mushroom veggie burger at the UWS Shake Shack, and regret that Danny Meyer didn’t open the damn place five years ago.

I’m going to miss going from a hot platform to a cold subway car.

I’m going to miss taking that subway car to Yankee stadium, 25 minutes from my apartment by the D, if you catch the trains right.

I’m going to miss the joy of seeing a new storefront opening up in the neighborhood, and peering into the windows to see what’s coming.

I’m going to miss going into Gin Mill on Amsterdam on football sundays to see the same group of guys, one of whom is the most dedicated displaced Eagles fan I’ve ever met.

I’m going to miss not going to museums. I’d like to say I go to museums, but…not so much.

Last, I’m going to miss telling people that I live in Manhattan, and feeling that this fact alone entitles me to a certain level of respect.

Filed Under: Best of, Living in Manhattan, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs Tagged With: Broadway, Cabs, Central Park, Restaurants, Yankees

Return from Exile: Another day, another screening

April 29, 2009 by Joseph Rand

Manhattan is taunting me. I’ve lived here for 17 years, never went to a movie premiere screening. Then last week, I get to go see Grey Gardens premiere at the Zigfield. And then yesterday I got to go see a very funny comedy at the the Tribeca Film Festival called Timer. The reason? Another college friend in show business, this time my friend Christopher Wood acting in a quick role (there are no “small” roles…) at the beginning. His role was much too small for his talent, but it was still fun to see him on the big screen.

It was bad enough when Shake Shack opened on the Upper West side, right around the same day I put my apartment on the market. And then Time Warner added a ton more high definition stations to my cable lineup. But now Manhattan is just beating on me, sending me interesting things to do, the kind of things I never do, as sort of a “you’ll never have it this good” hate-screw to me.

Filed Under: Living in Manhattan, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs, Return from Exile Tagged With: Grey Gardens, HBO, Michael Sucsy, Movies, Premiers

Why am I leaving Manhattan for the suburbs– I un-heart NYC???

April 19, 2009 by Joseph Rand

Someone pointed me to two articles in the Sunday Post, asking if I was leaving because I am bearish on Manhattan, the real estate, or the general economy. The first is a Post review of an economic report saying that New York is dead last in something called “economic outlook.” The Post calls it non-partisan, but it was written by the guy who created supply-side economics, so I think it’s probably got a viewpoint.

The second one is by Peggy Noonan, predicting a downsized world, where people forego cable and the internet and raise pigs and some such stuff.

And then the Post profiles a bunch of people who are leaving Manhattan to go to parts far away. Places like Minnesota and West Virginia.

Okay, let me make this clear. That’s not me.

I’m not moving to West Virginia.

I’m not going to raise pigs.

More importantly, I’m not down on Manhattan. Far from it. I hate leaving. Yes, I think that Manhattan real estate is probably going to go down in value for a period of time, although I priced my home to get it sold so I think my buyer got a pretty good deal. But that’s not why I’m leaving.

I’m leaving because I work out in the suburbs, and I’ve been commuting out there for seven years, and it’s finally gotten to me. Plus, the stairs. The damned stairs. More about the stairs another time.

But I love Manhattan. And if it becomes a little more affordable for people, I think that’s a good thing.

Filed Under: Advice, Living in Manhattan, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs, SUMA Lifestyle Tagged With: Home Prices, New York Post, Newspapers

What I’ll miss most — room service

April 16, 2009 by Joseph Rand

This is going to be hard.

Just got home after a loooong day. The wife is out with some friends, so I have the place to myself. Perhaps there was a time when I’d go out and play some pool, actually interact with other human beings. But, again, it was a long day with a bunch of extra “o’s”, so all I want to do is collapse on a sofa. And no way I’m going to cook anything.

Which brings me to room service. Maybe the best unsung feature of urban living. Actually better than room service in any hotel in the country. I’ve literally got a notebook full of menus (the wife is crazy like that), probably 50 restaurants in my area that deliver, just about any cuisine you want. 14 types of Chinese food. Sushi, Italian, Jewish deli, Malaysian food, French, Thai (although we’re strangely a little lean on Thai food on the upper west side the last few years, and the closing of the Vietnamese place on 81st and Amsterdam was a tragedy on par with the Watchman movie).

(Quick aside — call up Penang. Get the roti telur, ask for an extra side of the curry sauce. It’s like $2. Also get some coconut rice. When you’re done eating the Roti Telur, pour the sauce over the rice. Eat the rice. Email me and tell me how much you love me for turning you on to this.)

Tonight it was onion soup and fettucini with short ribs from Bistro Citron, which is also a dependable place for mussels provencale. $25 bucks, plus tip (you gotta tip the delivery guys well, with the life they lead), 25 minutes tops, and I’m eating. I will miss this.

I don’t know why suburban restaurants don’t focus on delivery, but my guess is that they’re bound into the idea that people in the suburbs cook their dinners. I don’t know about that. Seems a little “Leave it to Beaver” for me. I work in the suburbs in a workplace that is 85% women, and when I’m there at 6PM with a lot of them I don’t get the impression that they’re on the way home to cook up a casserole. I already have a job, but I encourage some young entrepreneur to start one of those services that connects restaurants about to go out of business with suburban families eating their fourth Chinese delivery meal of the week.

UPDATE: looked up some places online, like this one. But my guess is that they service only selected areas. Alas!

Filed Under: Living in Manhattan, Living in the Suburbs, Moving to the Suburbs, My Life in the Suburbs Tagged With: Delivery, Restaurants, Takeout

I Love Manhattan, but I’m leaving….

April 11, 2009 by Joseph Rand

I love living in Manhattan.

I love watching the evening news, and seeing that someone was run over by a car or stabbed or something, and being able to say, “hey, that’s like three blocks from my apartment!”

I love getting room service any time I want from my big book of delivery menus that my wife has actually collated, three-hole-punched, and put in a binder organized by ethnicity.

I love going to Central Park on Saturday mornings for some of the pickup softball games in the Great Lawn or the uptown ball fields.

I love the fact that my little neighborhood sandwich shop, Lenny’s, is now all over the city, and that other people get to share in the joy of a Thanksgiving turkey sandwich all year round.

I love pretending that I go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art because I have a membership card that says I’m a supporter, even though I never go.

I love my local restaurants Calle Ocho and Barbao, run by people I like and respect, although I liked going to brunch at Calle Ocho more before everyone else found out about the free sangria.

I love going to the meatpacking district and remembering where the transvestite hookers used to hang out, and seeing people buying $1500 handbags there.

I love walking around my neighborhood on the upper west side, playing the game of “what used to be here.” Like, the northeast corner at 82d and Columbus is a “corner of retail death,” one of many in the city. It’s now a Mexican restaurant called Comida. Before that, a semi-Southern-creole-could-never-quite-figure-it-out place called Madaeline Mae’s. Before that, a faux Irish pub called TJ O’Briens. Before that, the estimable and lamented Kitchen 82. And before that, Corner (run by the Lenny’s folk until they realized they could do better just making more Lennys). And, finally, before that, a local grocery called Casanas, which I still miss because they had these cheap homemade burritos that I’ve never been able to find anywhere else.

I love the fact that you can buy a nudie mag on pretty much every street corner, not that you would when so much more effective material is available now on the internet. But they’re still there, and basic economics says that someone must still be buying them.

I love being able to decide spontaneously to drink one night, knowing I don’t have to drive home, and that I can get back to my apartment so long as I can remember my address and be able to speak it out loud.

I love it all, and yet, and yet…..I am leaving.

I’m moving out. Selling the apartment that I bought in 1994, renovated and combined with another unit in 2004, and getting out. No more Upper West Side. No more delivery food. No more Central Park.

Why would I do this? It was time. I’ve lived here for almost 20 years, soaking up as much Manhattan as I could. But I work outside the city, and have for about six years. A 45 minute commute, each way, every day. That wears on you. And, frankly, as much as I love Manattan, I wasn’t getting a lot out of it when I’m getting home at 8PM exhausted from my drive and long day. And as much as I love my brownstone apartment, I’m tired of climbing stairs every day. People joke about how it keeps me in shape to climb two flights to my living room. It doesn’t.

But here’s my problem. I grew up in the suburbs, I work in the suburbs, and I know the suburbs. And I’m terrified about living in the suburbs. I don’t see why my life should change, I don’t know why I shouldn’t be able to create some semblance of my city life in the suburbs, with interesting bars and good restaurants and fun things to do. So I’m writing this blog to document my search for that life, that search for an urbanized existence in a suburban environment.

But some of the signs are not so good. My wife and I were exiled to the suburbs in 2004 when we were renovating our apartment, six months of Cheescake Factory Fridays and bars filled with guys wearing flannel and wierd sections of the New York Times that I never saw before. We kept saying we’d come into the city, and we did. Three or four times. Not a good sign.

Can I really live there? Can I live without mixology and Malaysian delivery and a short subway ride to Yankee Stadium? Can I find new friends and new places to hang out without becoming the suburban guy that I was as a kid.

I’m going to find out.