New York at its Best

There's No Such Thing as Free Cable
Tag line for movie "The Cable Guy"

"You're in good company", I said to Brandy, the New York Times customer service representative, after I'd stumbled my way through a hundred menu options and listened to the voice promos while my state-of-the art cell phone cut in and out.

"The Time Warner cable guy didn't show up twice and we waited eight hours for him for nothing; Verizon didn't change the phone over and the moving van company mislaid our truck. So it's no surprise that the New York Times didn't deliver our paper this morning."

Sarcasm was obviously not Brandy's forté, and she proceeded to explain, that even though all the other subscribers in our new condo apartment building already had their New York Times delivered that morning, the delivery man had till 8:30 before I could call it a missed delivery. "He might come back" she suggested.

The past few weeks have been a marathon. Buying the condo was an experience I could never have imagined, even in my wildest nightmares. Choosing an apartment, getting a loan, doing the paperwork, dealing with my bank, ensuring that all the other parties were ready for closing (settlement) was a full-time job, lasting eight weeks.

"But this is New York" our attorney would explain. "It just doesn't run smoothy". We persevered. "You need to get this paperwork to the condo board" we'd tell the broker. "You need to tell the broker we have to have the condo approval document", we'd tell the condo managing agent. We seem to have spent half our time reminding people.

Then there were the dealings with our savings bank... You thought it was easy to withdraw your own money? WRONG!

"We put the money in the checking (cheque) account because we had to withdraw it", we explained to the CitiBank teller when she queried the large amount of money in our check account. "Where did we get it? Well from our CDs (Term Deposits) we held with you", we sighed. "Why did we redeem them?" she asked, as if we had committed some crime. "Well we redeemed them and transferred the proceeds to the checking account so that we could withdraw the money for our condo deposit". "OK, get your supervisor" and so on and so forth, 16 hours per day seven days a week.

Just as I was becoming used to this sort of life and coming to terms with the fact that this was not hell, but a normal way of being, the parties got their act together. It was all happening.

Around a board-room table in midtown Manhattan on a late March Thursday. Our attorney, the lender, the vendor's attorney, the title man, the agent's rep, and 100 pieces of paper to sign - everything from "title" insurance to a special document covering the vendor and lender in case of a mistake in their own paperwork. This document is to make sure that even if there IS a mistake you agree to pay what they meant even if they didn't say it, our attorney explained in all seriousness.


Our new neighbourhoodBut we got there! The van was hired and even though it was half the size we'd ordered and the hire place forgot that we booked blankets and lost the key for the room where they were stored, the show was well and truly on the road.

Our new apartment is lovely, and the building only charged $350 moving-in fee (usually around $1,000). There's a real laundry and a private garden for residents only. There's space and space and closet space. It is clean and the doorman are pleasant.

It is hard now to believe our last night in the old rented place. We were both sound asleep. It was two thirty in the morning. We were awakened, not by the mice this time, but by the sound of a woman screaming at the top of her lungs. We lay there in silence waiting. The screams came again. We called the police, who came promptly. I was in bed when they came up, and I stared unbelieving at the sight of two huge New York cops standing in the middle of our New York studio to interview us.

They found nothing and departed, letting us know in broad Irish accents that they could not ascertain the source of the terrible screams. Straight out of a movie, I though as they left. And dozed off an hour later with thoughts of the movie "Little Murders" dancing through my head.

Twenty hours later and it was our first night in our new and civilised home.

We were exhausted. I don't believe I've experienced anything as strenuous except for when I was in labor with my first-born in the middle of rural Australia with a midwife who had never heard of breathing lessons.

As we walked towards the elevator the doorman handed us a parcel.

We sat at the table in our dining room and opened the package. A blue Tiffany's box with bound with a white satin ribbon. Inside two crystal champagne glasses, a gift from our agent, Julie, a quintessential New Yorker.

Thanks Julie, they are really lovely. But I have to tell you, we didn't crack the champagne. We were both too tired. Exhausted actually. And thanks to our attorney (another quintessential New Yorker) - yes Ira, we'll meet for drinks - but we need some time to recover first, as I'm sure you'll understand. And thank you Ira for not making us tip Mr. Title Man, as we are informed other buyers are instructed to do as a matter of course.

New York City - what a place! And New Yorkers ... words cannot express. Or as they say in New-York-Speak,

"What can I tell you?"

Kate Juliff
New York
April 2002