Escape to New York

Planting roots one room at a time, first the dining room with pictures!

In my post Escape to Savannah I recounted the three years after selling my Manhattan apartment and eventually settling in Savannah, Georgia. The timing was actually good. My two daughters and I were safely ensconced there during the pandemic. As soon as restrictions were somewhat lifted though, both girls hightailed it back up north. City girls through and through, they never quite took to the slower pace of the south. For the first time I found myself alone in the house and desperately missing my people in New York. I also desperately missed my city; the energy, the excitement and the endless possibilities.

As travel opened up, I began making regular trips back to the city. My heart sank when it was time to fly back to Savannah.  A new plan began to form in my head; how to plot my return to New York. On one trip back the flight from LaGuardia took the route that flies directly over Manhattan. There it was, my city in all its glory right under me. The reservoir, ball fields and the paths of Central Park that I knew like the back of my hand.  And my old street. Tears were streaming down my face as we continued south, the city no longer in view. I knew then and there I had to come back. That was April of 2022.  By July my house was under contract with the closing scheduled for September

Let me say right here, it is infinitely easier to plot an escape from New York than it is a return. Buying is a long and complicated process. Financially, I knew returning to New York was a bad idea but I didn’t see it as a choice. Just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz but in reverse, I came from the Emerald City and I had to return, no question. The closing took place on September 22nd. Homeless again I boarded a plane to NYC. 

My landing pad was a dear friend’s Upper West Side apartment where I could stay while he was in Germany for a month. The plan was I would quickly find a rental to live in as I re-established myself. My soft landing soon became rocky. The rental market was insane. Mind you, I haven’t rented in New York since the early 90’s. This was a landscape I was not prepared for; bidding wars for one bedrooms void of any character. Finally I found a two year sublet in a co-op building. It wasn't ideal. I had to pay exorbitant broker and co-op board fees and I was not permitted to stay beyond two years. All good, I was desperate. The place was livable and in a good neighborhood close to my beloved Central Park.

All my worldly possessions were sitting in a warehouse in South Carolina. I sold some furnishings with the house and took the move as yet another opportunity to carefully curate the furnishings I have. I knew I wouldn’t have the space I enjoyed in Savannah, but not knowing where I would end up I saved what I loved and would deal with the overflow once I landed somewhere. Suffice it to say, once it was all delivered to my one bedroom sublet, the situation could only be described as stage five hoardersville.

Eventually I shed more stuff and made a decent home out of my rental. I resumed work as a design consultant and began styling executive women. I was back and swore I would never take New York for granted again. For all its difficulties, it is the only place for me. Close again to my daughters and old friends, all was well until it wasn’t. A little over a year into my lease the owner informed me she decided to sell the apartment. I could rent month-to-month as the apartment was being shown, and for good measure she would be raising my rent. The legalities of all this was dubious. I decided I wanted out. 

Just weeks before Christmas, and recovering from a nasty bout of Covid that had drained my energy and spirit, I set out once more into the snake pit of New York City real estate; this time to buy. I looked at ten apartments. The ninth one is where I sit to write this. I knew the moment I walked in it was the place for me, I could feel it. It wasn’t perfect, the kitchen was tiny even for New York standards. What it did have were the essentials; good light and open views, nicely proportioned rooms, enough closets, a great location and in a pretty, prewar doorman building. The backflips I had to perform to get it I’ll spare you, but I couldn’t have done it without the best broker on the Upper East Side; shout out to Reba Miller of Compass.

Months went by obtaining financing and preparing the dreaded co-op board package. When I was finally approved, things moved real fast to the closing leaving me little time to have any work done. I didn’t want to pay for two apartments, so I gave my 30 days notice to the landlord.  This left me with roughly 10 days overlap of apartments, an impossibly small window of time to get any work done. It usually takes ten days just to get a contractor to return your call. Fortunately, the apartment was in good condition. I could move in without doing anything but I had to put my mark on it to make it mine.