I've spent a lot of time lately explaining the difference between a co-op and a condo here in NYC to friends and family. In a nutshell, it breaks down into what you own. In a condo, you own your unit from the walls inward. It is yours, you are a property owner, and you can (generally) sell it to whomever you like and do whatever like to it. In a co-op, you own a share of the controlling interest in the building proportionate to the size of your unit, and you hold a permanent lease on your unit to live in. So the apartment is not your property, and the co-op has a great deal of say in who you can sell it to and what you can do to it.
Fortunately, I now live in a condo. Condos are rare in NYC, for reasons that aren't particularly clear to me. Co-ops seem to be the norm in this town. So I consider myself pretty lucky to have found a good one. Still, both condos and co-ops are overseen by a Board of Directors. In a co-op, the Board has near-limitless power, since they control essentially the whole building. In a condo, the Board is not quite so omnipotent, but is still responsible for building management, maintenance, and generally keeping all the residents happy. After all, someone needs to actually run the building.
Last week, we had our first Unit Owners meeting, where everyone in the building got together for the first time. At this meeting were the Sponsor (the developer who built the building) and his lawyer, who officially transferred control of the building to the Owners (us). The first thing we then had to do was elect our three-member Board of Directors.
At this point I should mention, everyone in this building is pretty cool. Everyone I've met so far has been really nice, very open and welcoming. It really makes me feel even better about living here. Many of them are just like Lynn and I, young first-time homeowners. I suppose that last one is actually the one possible downside: no one has owned an apartment, so no one has any condo or condo board experience.
Still, we had to elect a Board, and elect one we did. Five of us volunteered, based on interested more than experience (since there was none among us). We held sheets of paper in front of us with our unit numbers, and stood in a line along the wall in front of everyone, like a police line-up. We went down the line telling a little bit about ourselves and what experience might be relevant. And everyone voted on the neighbors they just met, based solely on those few minutes of talking. I was elected, along with another guy on my floor, and the guy who lives directly above me. The only thing we knew was that we had our work cut out for us.
And it's true. We met for the first time, and are still in the process of even identifying all the things we have to take care of. It's a long list that includes everything from hiring someone to take out the trash to dealing with bank accounts and financial stability and buying a grill for the roof deck. But though I'm not exactly sure what's next yet, I'm really confident about this. The three of us are all on the same page, we get along really well, and we're all having fun figuring out what we're supposed to be doing. It'll be an interesting experience, but a good one.
Best of all, we're creating a community in our little building. And we're off to a great start.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Disputed Territory
When I first came to NYC, back in 2003, it was my dream to get an apartment right in the middle of things. I idolized, as so many transplants do, the Village. Little did I know what geographic trouble I was getting myself into. The original Village, Greenwich Village, was centered in what is today known as the West Village. To the east, appropriately, is the East Village--which was originally part of the Lower East Side but renamed for real estate appeal long ago.
I settled in a little studio on Waverly Place and Mercer St. When people asked me where I lived, I said "the Village," marveling at how incredibly cool that sounded. But then they'd say, "East or West?" and I was stumped. Some people insist the dividing line between East and West is Broadway. Others swear that it's Fifth Avenue. Maps, even official-looking city maps, are just as fickle, saying one, the other, or sometimes referencing both. Mercer Street, were I lived, is right in between Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Thus, each time I tried to describe where my little apartment was to anyone who lived in the city, it generally sparked a long--and often heated--debate on the boundaries of the Village.
Never one to shy away from cartographic controversy, I now find myself in a similar neighborhood border situation. Our new apartment in Brooklyn sits between two prominent north-south streets, Court Street and Smith Street. These streets are both labeled by several sources, maps, neighborhood guides, and city resources as the dividing boundary between the neighborhoods of Cobble Hill to the west and Boerum Hill to the east.
Cobble Hill was originally known as Ponkiesbergh, and was settled in the 1640's by the Dutch farmers in the area. It gained its current name from being a small hill (the highest point is at today's intersection of Atlantic Avenue and Court Street) where cobble stones were disposed. These stones were used as ballast in the trade ships coming from Europe, and were not needed when the ships left New York laden with American goods, so they were dumped in what was then just outside of the town of Brooklyn. Althought grouped into the generic "South Brooklyn" designation with everything else south of Atlantic Avenue for many decades, the name Cobble Hill has been in city documents since as early as the 1840s. The high point itself was even used as a fort during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, though nothing remains of either today.
Boerum Hill, meanwhile, has a slightly more quiet history. The area was named after the Boerum family whose farm covered most of the area in colonial times. Its development followed closely along with Cobble Hill. Some folks will tell you the name "Boerum Hill" is a product of gentrification in the area, like DUMBO or calling Hell's Kitchen "Clinton." This is because, like Cobble Hill, Boerum Hill was lumped into the "South Brooklyn" designation well into the 1950s. However, there are plenty of records showing the name "Boerum Hill" going back as far as the colonial farm itself. So while the name may have been resurrected after South Brooklyn lost its appeal, Boerum Hill was the original name given to what is now the neighborhood.
Interestingly, in the early 1920s a large group of Mohawk families moved to Boerum Hill from a reservation in Quebec. They came to NYC as ironworkers to build the new skyscrapers as, unlike their European-American neighbors, they were comfortable working at the dizzying heights of the tallest buildings in the world. But as crane and building technology improved, the Mohawks eventually left as well, heading west where there was more work available.
So which neighborhood should it be? I see one strong argument for each. Historically, the actual hill that Cobble Hill refers to was centered on what is today an intersection of two streets one block away. That puts our building literally "on" Cobble Hill, so it would make sense to call it "in" Cobble Hill as well. On the other hand, the city government draws the line between Community Board 2, which includes Boerum Hill, and Community Board 6, which includes Cobble Hill, along Court Street. This means that, as far as our representation in the city government is concerned, we're in Boerum Hill.
Though I suppose I could avoid the issue entirely, since nearly everyone in Brooklyn knows exactly what I mean when I say I live "around the corner from Trader Joe's." As for the Manhattan dwellers, all I have do is say "Brooklyn" and watch their eyes glaze over.
I settled in a little studio on Waverly Place and Mercer St. When people asked me where I lived, I said "the Village," marveling at how incredibly cool that sounded. But then they'd say, "East or West?" and I was stumped. Some people insist the dividing line between East and West is Broadway. Others swear that it's Fifth Avenue. Maps, even official-looking city maps, are just as fickle, saying one, the other, or sometimes referencing both. Mercer Street, were I lived, is right in between Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Thus, each time I tried to describe where my little apartment was to anyone who lived in the city, it generally sparked a long--and often heated--debate on the boundaries of the Village.
Never one to shy away from cartographic controversy, I now find myself in a similar neighborhood border situation. Our new apartment in Brooklyn sits between two prominent north-south streets, Court Street and Smith Street. These streets are both labeled by several sources, maps, neighborhood guides, and city resources as the dividing boundary between the neighborhoods of Cobble Hill to the west and Boerum Hill to the east.
Cobble Hill was originally known as Ponkiesbergh, and was settled in the 1640's by the Dutch farmers in the area. It gained its current name from being a small hill (the highest point is at today's intersection of Atlantic Avenue and Court Street) where cobble stones were disposed. These stones were used as ballast in the trade ships coming from Europe, and were not needed when the ships left New York laden with American goods, so they were dumped in what was then just outside of the town of Brooklyn. Althought grouped into the generic "South Brooklyn" designation with everything else south of Atlantic Avenue for many decades, the name Cobble Hill has been in city documents since as early as the 1840s. The high point itself was even used as a fort during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, though nothing remains of either today.
Boerum Hill, meanwhile, has a slightly more quiet history. The area was named after the Boerum family whose farm covered most of the area in colonial times. Its development followed closely along with Cobble Hill. Some folks will tell you the name "Boerum Hill" is a product of gentrification in the area, like DUMBO or calling Hell's Kitchen "Clinton." This is because, like Cobble Hill, Boerum Hill was lumped into the "South Brooklyn" designation well into the 1950s. However, there are plenty of records showing the name "Boerum Hill" going back as far as the colonial farm itself. So while the name may have been resurrected after South Brooklyn lost its appeal, Boerum Hill was the original name given to what is now the neighborhood.
Interestingly, in the early 1920s a large group of Mohawk families moved to Boerum Hill from a reservation in Quebec. They came to NYC as ironworkers to build the new skyscrapers as, unlike their European-American neighbors, they were comfortable working at the dizzying heights of the tallest buildings in the world. But as crane and building technology improved, the Mohawks eventually left as well, heading west where there was more work available.
So which neighborhood should it be? I see one strong argument for each. Historically, the actual hill that Cobble Hill refers to was centered on what is today an intersection of two streets one block away. That puts our building literally "on" Cobble Hill, so it would make sense to call it "in" Cobble Hill as well. On the other hand, the city government draws the line between Community Board 2, which includes Boerum Hill, and Community Board 6, which includes Cobble Hill, along Court Street. This means that, as far as our representation in the city government is concerned, we're in Boerum Hill.
Though I suppose I could avoid the issue entirely, since nearly everyone in Brooklyn knows exactly what I mean when I say I live "around the corner from Trader Joe's." As for the Manhattan dwellers, all I have do is say "Brooklyn" and watch their eyes glaze over.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Episode IV: A New Home
The great Suburban Exile of 2010 has ended. After a month of living off in the 'burbs and commuting into the city, we're finally settled in our apartment. That we own. But it wasn't easy getting there, naturally.
Once June had hit and we were living in Connecticut, we had a new deadline to worry over. June 30th was the last day we could close to claim the several-thousand-dollar First Time Home-buyer Tax Credit that the government began early last year as part of the larger economic stimulus. We had the usual runaround, hearing "of course we'll make it," and, "don't worry about it." But that's what we heard in March. And April. And May.
While our bank had pulled its approval of the building, another bank had gone ahead and approved it. That bank closed several apartments in the building and our future neighbors started moving in. We abandoned our bank, and started from scratch with this other bank that had approved people. The new bank was wonderful; they accomplished in a week what the first bank to two months to do. They rushed everything through for us, and all was moving quickly.
But not quickly enough. June was flying by, and we were getting closer and closer to losing the tax credit. Delay after delay we could handle, albeit grudgingly, but losing the credit would have been an extra slap. Finally, as the end of June neared, our lawyer, the bank's lawyer, and the building developer's lawyer set a date to close and hoped that we'd have the final green light from the bank by then. That date was June 30th, 10am.
Around 10pm on June 29th, we got a call from our lawyer. We're going to close! Probably. There was some confirmation of funds transfer from the bank that we needed, and that hadn't come in yet. Our lawyer told us to be ready at 10am, but not to show up at the closing table until he called. Just in case.
The next morning we had our final walk-through in the apartment before the closing. We walked around looking everything over one last time. But mostly we were just wondering, would this really happen? 10am came and went. 10:30am came and went. Finally, the phone rang, and we were off to the closing table. Two hours, and many signatures and people shuffling, later we were homeowners.
Wasting no time, we immediately scheduled the movers for the following Monday and painted over the weekend. It's good to be home.
Once June had hit and we were living in Connecticut, we had a new deadline to worry over. June 30th was the last day we could close to claim the several-thousand-dollar First Time Home-buyer Tax Credit that the government began early last year as part of the larger economic stimulus. We had the usual runaround, hearing "of course we'll make it," and, "don't worry about it." But that's what we heard in March. And April. And May.
While our bank had pulled its approval of the building, another bank had gone ahead and approved it. That bank closed several apartments in the building and our future neighbors started moving in. We abandoned our bank, and started from scratch with this other bank that had approved people. The new bank was wonderful; they accomplished in a week what the first bank to two months to do. They rushed everything through for us, and all was moving quickly.
But not quickly enough. June was flying by, and we were getting closer and closer to losing the tax credit. Delay after delay we could handle, albeit grudgingly, but losing the credit would have been an extra slap. Finally, as the end of June neared, our lawyer, the bank's lawyer, and the building developer's lawyer set a date to close and hoped that we'd have the final green light from the bank by then. That date was June 30th, 10am.
Around 10pm on June 29th, we got a call from our lawyer. We're going to close! Probably. There was some confirmation of funds transfer from the bank that we needed, and that hadn't come in yet. Our lawyer told us to be ready at 10am, but not to show up at the closing table until he called. Just in case.
The next morning we had our final walk-through in the apartment before the closing. We walked around looking everything over one last time. But mostly we were just wondering, would this really happen? 10am came and went. 10:30am came and went. Finally, the phone rang, and we were off to the closing table. Two hours, and many signatures and people shuffling, later we were homeowners.
Wasting no time, we immediately scheduled the movers for the following Monday and painted over the weekend. It's good to be home.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Suburban Exile - Day 17
I was thinking I would post often about the exciting suburban life of Stamford, CT. I thought I would have a lot of richly humorous stories about the people and ways, navigating the winding streets and sprawling shopping centers.
Nope.
With a commute ranging from one and a half to two hours each way, I find that I'm not doing a whole lot of living while living in Stamford. Each morning, I wake up by 5:30am, so that we can both be ready to drive to the train station at 6:30am. After work, by the time we're back at the house, it's nearly 8pm. Sometimes later. Exhausted from full days of work and traveling, there's generally enough time for dinner, some reading, and then sleep.
I don't mean to complain too much. The truth is that we're still saving quite a bit of money living out here, paying no rent, utilities, and little for food. It's been great to spend more time with family, and we've been very fortunate to have the kind of family we do. Even the cat and dog have begun to peacefully coexist in the same room.
But at the end of the day, I can't wait to get back to Brooklyn. On that front, we've applied with a second bank, giving up on the first one's incompetency altogether. The application, up through the appraisal report, was all rushed through in eight days. So now we're waiting, just as were before, for the final green light to close.
Fingers crossed (again).
Nope.
With a commute ranging from one and a half to two hours each way, I find that I'm not doing a whole lot of living while living in Stamford. Each morning, I wake up by 5:30am, so that we can both be ready to drive to the train station at 6:30am. After work, by the time we're back at the house, it's nearly 8pm. Sometimes later. Exhausted from full days of work and traveling, there's generally enough time for dinner, some reading, and then sleep.
I don't mean to complain too much. The truth is that we're still saving quite a bit of money living out here, paying no rent, utilities, and little for food. It's been great to spend more time with family, and we've been very fortunate to have the kind of family we do. Even the cat and dog have begun to peacefully coexist in the same room.
But at the end of the day, I can't wait to get back to Brooklyn. On that front, we've applied with a second bank, giving up on the first one's incompetency altogether. The application, up through the appraisal report, was all rushed through in eight days. So now we're waiting, just as were before, for the final green light to close.
Fingers crossed (again).
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Suprising Power of Twitter
I'll be the first to admit, I was very skeptical of Twitter when I first heard about it. Yet another social network? Wait, you're telling me this one is just one-way short messages blasted out to the world with no context? Hold on now, they're limited to 140 characters? Why in the world would anyone care what I have to "tweet" about. And why in the world would I want to "follow" anyone else when I have Facebook?
Eventually, though, I joined Twitter a little over a year and change ago. But I had an excuse! It was for work! Slowly, I came to like the immediacy of it, especially in how it could surface trending links on the web that were interesting or funny. Eventually, I plugged it into Facebook so that when I tweeted something, that tweet also became my Facebook status. I did this because I have a Blackberry Curve phone, and the Facebook app for Blackberry is not the easiest thing to use, but the Twitter app was great. These days, I find I use Twitter differently from Facebook. It's easy to have short, quick, conversations. It's still useful in finding interesting and funny content out in the wild. And it's a useful way of sharing things that I find interesting. And you know what, it turns out I do care what some of my friends are tweeting. More surprisingly, they care about what I'm tweeting.
But I've only recently come to a stunning and powerful discovery. Twitter, more than any other means of communication, has a powerful advantage when it comes to dealing with large corporations.
Case Study No. 1: Time Warner Cable
Everyone I have ever met who has interacted Time Warner Cable hates it. They have something of a monopoly on the cable and ISP sector here in NYC (at least until some other networks finish building their infrastructure). They're expensive, notoriously slow in scheduling appointments or doing basically anything, and the only way to get anything done is to call them. Calling them, of course, requires more patience and perseverance than the average person can comprehend, since the folks answering the calls are generally not empowered to do anything beyond the most basic functions.
Last week, I called Time Warner Cable to schedule an appointment for them to pick up our cable box and modem and cancel the account on our current apartment. I would take any appointment at all, I told them, so long as it was on or before the 30th of May. They told me the next available appointment was June 8th. I explained that I would not be living in this city on that day, and that since the "appointment" consists of them driving by, picking up the box, and leaving, I was sure they could squeeze in something. This is a dense city, the Time Warner trucks are in the neighborhood every day. Surely, surely they could make a two-minute stop along the way sometime in the next ten days. No, they said, no room for appointments. I'll spare you the details, largely because they involve me yelling, but after talking to several people and three managers, I finally reached the head of the call center in Wisconsin. She finally explained to me that she did not have the authority to over-ride the computer scheduling program. And she did not have the phone number of anyone who did. And she was the boss of her office, so there was no one she could escalate me to. Oh, she could call the Brooklyn or Manhattan offices, but even those calls would be diverted to her call center, and she'd only get one of her employees on the line. Bottom line: There was nothing she could do. And this was after being on the phone for nearly two hours.
Frustrated, angry, and defeated, I finally agreed to drag the box to their office myself and drop it off some day in the future, the only option I was left with. After hanging up the phone, I vented on Twitter. "@TWCable_NYC won't pick up our equipment, and they'll charge us until we take it to them. Customer service fail. @TWCableHelp" Almost immediately, Bryan, one of the many folks behind the @TWCableHelp account tweeted back. Over a few quick back-and-forth tweets, I explained my frustration, and he offered to help. I sent him my contact info via a private tweet (called a "direct message" or DM for those of you not yet Twittified). About an hour later, a woman from Time Warner called me. Let me say that again: Time Warner called me. She verified my information, and made me an appointment before we move out. Just like that.
Case Study No. 2: Bank of America
All the drama going on with our mortgage bank approving, not approving, and hopefully someday re-approving the building in which we're buying an apartment has been another major source of stress lately. As the messenger of the bad news, the mortgage broker I've been working with has gotten the brunt of my concerns as we've edged closer and closer to moving day without knowing where we're moving to. He's been great, and trying very hard to keep me informed, but in the end, the decisions have been in the bank's hands. The bank he's working with is Bank of America. Frustrated, I again tweeted at an account of theirs that I found, @BofA_Help, more than anything as a vent for how distressing it is to be moving in five days with no clear destination.
Again, within minutes, Sharon from Bank of America tweeted back asking for my phone number. She promised to call me herself the next day. And she did. Bank of America called me. She listened to my story, took my information, and said she would do everything she could. She called my mortgage broker directly to talk to him (he was surprised as well). She then called the head of the condo mortgage department and talked to her directly. She gathered all the information she could, and called me back a couple hours later to tell me everything she'd learned.
Unfortunately, there really was nothing she could do to help. The head of the condo department explained to her the delays in approving the building, and there really is no way to make them go away. But while Sharon couldn't solve my problem, she made me feel much better. Suddenly, I wasn't a number on a spreadsheet. I was a person whose concerns were brought directly to the department head. Think about large corporations, especially customer-facing corporations, and think about how amazing that previous sentence is.
Conclusions
You can make the argument that these teams of folks dedicated to responding to tweets are a good PR move for the companies, and you'd be right. Negative comments on Twitter are public, on view to everyone, and if the person tweeting is well-connected, can spread like wild fire. Responding quickly to them generally elicits positive reaction tweets immediately thereafter. Looks great for the company, big win.
But the customers win, too. These Twitter teams, unlike any other customer-facing employees, seem to have the connections within the company to get results. They can over-ride computer scheduling systems. They can call department heads directly. And they can do this within minutes to hours. There's a psychological element as well. The customer feels like a person, because a person responds to them. But there's one thing above all else that is the biggest win for the customers:
With only 140 characters, there's no room for any bull.
Eventually, though, I joined Twitter a little over a year and change ago. But I had an excuse! It was for work! Slowly, I came to like the immediacy of it, especially in how it could surface trending links on the web that were interesting or funny. Eventually, I plugged it into Facebook so that when I tweeted something, that tweet also became my Facebook status. I did this because I have a Blackberry Curve phone, and the Facebook app for Blackberry is not the easiest thing to use, but the Twitter app was great. These days, I find I use Twitter differently from Facebook. It's easy to have short, quick, conversations. It's still useful in finding interesting and funny content out in the wild. And it's a useful way of sharing things that I find interesting. And you know what, it turns out I do care what some of my friends are tweeting. More surprisingly, they care about what I'm tweeting.
But I've only recently come to a stunning and powerful discovery. Twitter, more than any other means of communication, has a powerful advantage when it comes to dealing with large corporations.
Case Study No. 1: Time Warner Cable
Everyone I have ever met who has interacted Time Warner Cable hates it. They have something of a monopoly on the cable and ISP sector here in NYC (at least until some other networks finish building their infrastructure). They're expensive, notoriously slow in scheduling appointments or doing basically anything, and the only way to get anything done is to call them. Calling them, of course, requires more patience and perseverance than the average person can comprehend, since the folks answering the calls are generally not empowered to do anything beyond the most basic functions.
Last week, I called Time Warner Cable to schedule an appointment for them to pick up our cable box and modem and cancel the account on our current apartment. I would take any appointment at all, I told them, so long as it was on or before the 30th of May. They told me the next available appointment was June 8th. I explained that I would not be living in this city on that day, and that since the "appointment" consists of them driving by, picking up the box, and leaving, I was sure they could squeeze in something. This is a dense city, the Time Warner trucks are in the neighborhood every day. Surely, surely they could make a two-minute stop along the way sometime in the next ten days. No, they said, no room for appointments. I'll spare you the details, largely because they involve me yelling, but after talking to several people and three managers, I finally reached the head of the call center in Wisconsin. She finally explained to me that she did not have the authority to over-ride the computer scheduling program. And she did not have the phone number of anyone who did. And she was the boss of her office, so there was no one she could escalate me to. Oh, she could call the Brooklyn or Manhattan offices, but even those calls would be diverted to her call center, and she'd only get one of her employees on the line. Bottom line: There was nothing she could do. And this was after being on the phone for nearly two hours.
Frustrated, angry, and defeated, I finally agreed to drag the box to their office myself and drop it off some day in the future, the only option I was left with. After hanging up the phone, I vented on Twitter. "@TWCable_NYC won't pick up our equipment, and they'll charge us until we take it to them. Customer service fail. @TWCableHelp" Almost immediately, Bryan, one of the many folks behind the @TWCableHelp account tweeted back. Over a few quick back-and-forth tweets, I explained my frustration, and he offered to help. I sent him my contact info via a private tweet (called a "direct message" or DM for those of you not yet Twittified). About an hour later, a woman from Time Warner called me. Let me say that again: Time Warner called me. She verified my information, and made me an appointment before we move out. Just like that.
Case Study No. 2: Bank of America
All the drama going on with our mortgage bank approving, not approving, and hopefully someday re-approving the building in which we're buying an apartment has been another major source of stress lately. As the messenger of the bad news, the mortgage broker I've been working with has gotten the brunt of my concerns as we've edged closer and closer to moving day without knowing where we're moving to. He's been great, and trying very hard to keep me informed, but in the end, the decisions have been in the bank's hands. The bank he's working with is Bank of America. Frustrated, I again tweeted at an account of theirs that I found, @BofA_Help, more than anything as a vent for how distressing it is to be moving in five days with no clear destination.
Again, within minutes, Sharon from Bank of America tweeted back asking for my phone number. She promised to call me herself the next day. And she did. Bank of America called me. She listened to my story, took my information, and said she would do everything she could. She called my mortgage broker directly to talk to him (he was surprised as well). She then called the head of the condo mortgage department and talked to her directly. She gathered all the information she could, and called me back a couple hours later to tell me everything she'd learned.
Unfortunately, there really was nothing she could do to help. The head of the condo department explained to her the delays in approving the building, and there really is no way to make them go away. But while Sharon couldn't solve my problem, she made me feel much better. Suddenly, I wasn't a number on a spreadsheet. I was a person whose concerns were brought directly to the department head. Think about large corporations, especially customer-facing corporations, and think about how amazing that previous sentence is.
Conclusions
You can make the argument that these teams of folks dedicated to responding to tweets are a good PR move for the companies, and you'd be right. Negative comments on Twitter are public, on view to everyone, and if the person tweeting is well-connected, can spread like wild fire. Responding quickly to them generally elicits positive reaction tweets immediately thereafter. Looks great for the company, big win.
But the customers win, too. These Twitter teams, unlike any other customer-facing employees, seem to have the connections within the company to get results. They can over-ride computer scheduling systems. They can call department heads directly. And they can do this within minutes to hours. There's a psychological element as well. The customer feels like a person, because a person responds to them. But there's one thing above all else that is the biggest win for the customers:
With only 140 characters, there's no room for any bull.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Apartment Drama, or, Exile to the Suburbs
At this point, I'm calling it: We will not be moving into our new apartment this weekend.
For those keeping track, we found our new home back in January and signed the contract on it the first week of February. (For those not keeping track, here's all news I remembered to print.) There were some early complications in the way the condo was set up with commercial space on the ground floor, but those have long since been worked out. Back in March, we had our first walk-through, and we were glad to see that it was largely ready for us to move in, with only cosmetic things making our punch list.
In April, we waited. Waited for bank to give us our loan approval. When that came, we were truly excited. Everything was falling into place, and we were set. Now all we needed was for the bank to make some final approvals on the building itself after those earlier complications. But all signs pointed to closing in April, or perhaps early May at worst.
Toward the end of April, we heard the building had been approved by the bank. Our lawyer scheduled a closing date for May 11th. We were warned that the bank might not have all their ducks in a row by then, but that there was every indication to believe it was possible. With certainty, we were told, the process was so close to being finished that there was no way the closing would be delayed beyond May.
So it was a time for celebration. We threw a party in early May to say farewell to our backyard garden (and celebrate a birthday). We told our landlord that the end of May was when we'd move out of the apartment, giving us time to paint the new place. Wheels were turning, and we came to realize that Memorial Day weekend, if not earlier, would be when we moved.
Then, suddenly, the bank withdrew its approval of the building. They'd approved it on a false premise, we were told, they didn't understand some key elements of the way the commercial space was set up. Huh? At least one part of the complication came from the fact that the condo uses one address, while the commercial space uses a different address. Paperwork got confused, the bank got confused, and pulled their approval. Whether or not we would close in May was once again under question.
Still, we were told not to worry. The bank would sort out its confusion and re-approve the building any day now. Any day now. We asked our mortgage brokers for daily updates, but the answer remained "we're just waiting for the bank's approval." We tried to be hopeful, as the weeks wore on, but in the back of our minds we were beginning to realize we needed a back-up plan. And fast.
Which brings us up to this week. Just yesterday, our lawyer called me again with a tentative closing date on Thursday. That cuts is close, but still allows us time to move to our new apartment this weekend, since we can't stay in our current apartment beyond the 31st. Relieved, I shot an email over to the mortgage broker again asking if he thought this was a possibility as well. He does not think so. In fact, he's confident we will not be closing tomorrow or Friday. But he assures us, he's working as hard as he can to get it through as soon as possible.
Time for Plan B.
Lynn's parents have offered to take us in. They live in Stamford, CT about a forty-five minute train ride from Grand Central. They have a guest room in their basement with it's own bathroom. We'd have use of a car, and would be train commuters to work, along with thousands of other suburbanites. Three and a half years ago, I retreated to Stamford to wait out the job hunt, and now it looks like we'll be returning. While I'm not looking forward to the commute (at all), I'm grateful for their generosity. It's won't be convenient, but it will be a way of saving money and spending time with family. And it's certainly a more viable option than finding a Craigslist short-term lease for a married couple, living out of a hotel, or hopping from couch to couch among friends (although I am also extremely touched and grateful to all of you who offered).
Louis the cat, however, may disagree when he meets Riley the dog.
For those keeping track, we found our new home back in January and signed the contract on it the first week of February. (For those not keeping track, here's all news I remembered to print.) There were some early complications in the way the condo was set up with commercial space on the ground floor, but those have long since been worked out. Back in March, we had our first walk-through, and we were glad to see that it was largely ready for us to move in, with only cosmetic things making our punch list.
In April, we waited. Waited for bank to give us our loan approval. When that came, we were truly excited. Everything was falling into place, and we were set. Now all we needed was for the bank to make some final approvals on the building itself after those earlier complications. But all signs pointed to closing in April, or perhaps early May at worst.
Toward the end of April, we heard the building had been approved by the bank. Our lawyer scheduled a closing date for May 11th. We were warned that the bank might not have all their ducks in a row by then, but that there was every indication to believe it was possible. With certainty, we were told, the process was so close to being finished that there was no way the closing would be delayed beyond May.
So it was a time for celebration. We threw a party in early May to say farewell to our backyard garden (and celebrate a birthday). We told our landlord that the end of May was when we'd move out of the apartment, giving us time to paint the new place. Wheels were turning, and we came to realize that Memorial Day weekend, if not earlier, would be when we moved.
Then, suddenly, the bank withdrew its approval of the building. They'd approved it on a false premise, we were told, they didn't understand some key elements of the way the commercial space was set up. Huh? At least one part of the complication came from the fact that the condo uses one address, while the commercial space uses a different address. Paperwork got confused, the bank got confused, and pulled their approval. Whether or not we would close in May was once again under question.
Still, we were told not to worry. The bank would sort out its confusion and re-approve the building any day now. Any day now. We asked our mortgage brokers for daily updates, but the answer remained "we're just waiting for the bank's approval." We tried to be hopeful, as the weeks wore on, but in the back of our minds we were beginning to realize we needed a back-up plan. And fast.
Which brings us up to this week. Just yesterday, our lawyer called me again with a tentative closing date on Thursday. That cuts is close, but still allows us time to move to our new apartment this weekend, since we can't stay in our current apartment beyond the 31st. Relieved, I shot an email over to the mortgage broker again asking if he thought this was a possibility as well. He does not think so. In fact, he's confident we will not be closing tomorrow or Friday. But he assures us, he's working as hard as he can to get it through as soon as possible.
Time for Plan B.
Lynn's parents have offered to take us in. They live in Stamford, CT about a forty-five minute train ride from Grand Central. They have a guest room in their basement with it's own bathroom. We'd have use of a car, and would be train commuters to work, along with thousands of other suburbanites. Three and a half years ago, I retreated to Stamford to wait out the job hunt, and now it looks like we'll be returning. While I'm not looking forward to the commute (at all), I'm grateful for their generosity. It's won't be convenient, but it will be a way of saving money and spending time with family. And it's certainly a more viable option than finding a Craigslist short-term lease for a married couple, living out of a hotel, or hopping from couch to couch among friends (although I am also extremely touched and grateful to all of you who offered).
Louis the cat, however, may disagree when he meets Riley the dog.
Monday, May 24, 2010
3...2...1...Liftoff!
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| STS-132: Atlantis lifts off for the last time Ben Cooper, Launch Photography |
Our tickets to Kennedy Space Center said we had to arrive by 9am. Expecting a lot of traffic, we left around 6am to make the 1-hour (on a good day) trip due east from Orlando to Cape Canaveral. As we drove through the marshland to the coast, the sun rose ahead of us, and traffic was no concern at all. We arrived at KSC around 7am, not really sure what we were going to do all day, but excited for the big moment that would come at 2:19pm.
I had never been to KSC before, though even I was surprised at just how much I enjoyed our day there. In the early morning light, we walked among the towering converted missiles of the early space program in the Rocket Garden. We saw the stages of early spaceflight become the modern shuttle program. We played in Mercury and Apollo capsules. We rode a shuttle launch simulator ride. And all of this before breakfast.
As the morning continued, we found ourselves more and more drawn to one of the lawns where would eventually view the launch. Although we did not have a clear view of the launchpad itself, there were large screens set up with live video feeds of the pad and activity around the Atlantis. Speakers throughout the grounds were tuned to listen in on communications between Mission Control, Launch Control, and the vehicle itself. Near one of the screens, a small stage was set up. Here one of NASA's extremely knowledgeable Communications Officers would describe in detail what was happening as the external fuel tank (the large orange tank underneath the shuttle) was filled with liquid oxygen and hydrogen. We could see the astronauts putting their suits on, riding up the shuttle, and being strapped in.
What was more, two astronauts took the stage as well. They talked not only about their experiences in space, but what was happening right now with the crew of STS-132. What they were thinking and feeling as they were strapped into the most complex machine mankind has ever built. What we should expect to see as the launch neared, and began. We knew the astronaut's nicknames, and how they earned them. We knew how they chose their meals for their time in space. We knew what they were carrying to the International Space Station. The effect of all of this was two-fold. For people like me, who had dreamed of being there for as long as they could remember, we felt so much more a part of the launch. We were invested in it emotionally as well as intellectually. For those like Lynn, who did not have the decades of background knowledge in spaceflight, it brought them into that community as well. As the countdown clock ticked lower and lower, everyone in attendance became more than spectators, we became a community of supporters.
With about a half hour before the launch, things began moving quickly. We heard the final checks being performed and confirmed over the radio. A helicopter swept back and forth over the Cape checking to make sure the airspace was clear.
At nine minutes, we all stood up. The walkway to the shuttle was retracted. A crowd of thousands held their breath.
Two minutes. We cheered as the oxygen tank cap swung away from the top of the large orange fuel tank. This is the last piece of the launch tower attached the shuttle, the astronauts call it the "parking break." The astronauts closed their helmet visors.
One minute to go, all systems check, power and communications are internal to the vehical. Houston checks in with Launch Control. Everything's ready.
Thirty seconds: Ground Launch Sequnce starts
Ten seconds: On our screen, we see a close up of the main engines. Sparks begin to fly, these will burn up any excess hydrogen fuel in the area so there are no uncontrolled explosions.
Six seconds: Main engines start. The flames are so hot they are clear and blue, and focused into tight cones behind the engines. The shuttle rocks forward in reaction to the engines firing.
One second: The shuttle rocks back.
Zero: The white Solid Rocket Boosters on either side of the fuel tank ignite. Smoke billows out to the side. The shuttle lifts off the pad. It's the most effortless movement, the one thing this incredible machine was designed to do exceedingly well. And it does. It rises smoothly and quickly straight up, building a pillar of smoke beneath it.
At this, we all look to the east, waiting for the shuttle to come into view. It was the longest ten seconds I've ever experienced. Ten seconds of anticipation to see, with my own eyes, what I'd watched so many times on TV and computer screens. My life paused for ten seconds.
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| Ben Cooper, Launch Photography |
Thirty seconds later, the wall of sound finally reached us.
We watched Atlantis gracefully roll over, putting the shuttle itself at the bottom of the arc it would take up into the sky. I was five years old again, in my living room in Detroit. I had my metal toy shuttle pressed against the TV screen, lining it up with the trail of smoke from the real shuttle. My cheeks were puffed out from the growling noise I made and imagined the real rocket engines were making. I was in that little toy shuttle, and I was going somewhere I'd never been before. My thoughts, and my spirits, and my dreams went into that real shuttle on this day. They rose with Atlantis and her crew to a new place, a new adventure. They were unstoppable.
About two minutes after lift-off, Atlantis had one more final farewell for those us on the ground. The sky was so clear, we saw the solid rocket boosters reach the end of their fuel, and jettison from the sides of the shuttle. They fell off to each side, and their flames went out. They began to fall, and eventually parachute down to the ocean.
Our eyes back to the large screen on the lawn, we watched from the external cameras attached to the external fuel tank. We saw the horizon of the Earth begin to curve, with the darkness of space beginning to surround it. Finally, eight minutes after launch, the external tank detached from the shuttle. Another cheer went up from the crowd. Atlantis was in space. We watched as the cameras on the tank continued to transmit, Atlantis seemed to float away. We could see the underside of the shuttle sliding easily out of view as the cameras finally stopped.
Looking around us on the ground was like waking up from an incredible dream. I had to remember where I was, how I got there. Lynn squeezed my hand, and I was happy. Heading back to Orlando took nearly three and a half hours with the traffic. Lynn was driving the first shift, and I fell asleep in the passenger seat. I dreamed. I dreamed the same dream as moments before, and all those years ago.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Ad Astra!
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| Atlantis awaits rollout in the VAB - 4/19/10 Ben Cooper, Launch Photography |
There's something so exhilarating about watching a rocket or a shuttle lift off into the sky. The power, the rumbling, the fire, the grace, the beauty, and finally the awe. It's unlike any other man-made marvel and reaches right down into us, tapping that sense of wonder and exploration. Suddenly we're all back with our space helmets and pillow-fort starships, and everything is possible.
I've never seen it in person.
In all my years, and all my trips down to Orlando, I've never been able to line anything up with a launch. I've been stuck running to a TV, or watching the NASA coverage on their web site. Sometimes, though I'll never admit in person, I watch just the launch scene from the movie Apollo 13. Sometimes I watch it twice.
With the shuttle fleet retiring this year, I came to the startling realization that I may never see a launch if I didn't act quickly. So I checked the schedule, cleared a couple days from work, and bought plane tickets for Lynn and I to head down for the launch of STS-132, the final flight of the shuttle Atlantis.
Since then, I've been following the shuttle's progress from the Orbiter Processing Facility (OPF) to the Vehical Assembly Building (VAB), and finally out to the launch pad. NASA's shuttle page has great coverage of the details, but I've been really enjoying Ben Cooper's Launch Photography site. Ben is a NASA photographer and has amazing access to the shuttle for pictures. Here's a whole series on Atlantis being lifted up and rotated in the VAB so they can attach the fuel tank and rocket boosters. These are rare, and awesome, pictures.
Today, Atlantis is sitting at launch pad 39A, where in two weeks' time it will lift off on its final mission. And I'll be there to see it in person. With my space helmet. Everything is possible.
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| Atlantis rolls out to launch pad 39A - 4/21/10 Ben Cooper, Launch Photography |
Monday, March 29, 2010
Walk Through, Take One
On Friday, we saw our apartment for the first time in over a month. Despite the general craziness about the condo structuring sill on-going, everyone involved is pretty confident that things will still move forward. (That's a relief.) So we had our first walk-through since the apartment has been finished. There will be two more along the way, one in several weeks, and the final right before closing.
It was a little surreal. For one, this is the first time we've seen the apartment finished. The last time we went to the building, there were no appliances in the kitchen, not quite everything had been painted, and many of the little finishing touches had yet to be installed. The hallway on our floor had no carpet or paint as well, and truly felt like a construction zone. This time, nearly everything was in place, and it looked like a real apartment.
Our apartment, which was the other surreal part of it. We've been looking at apartments for a long time, and have seen so many, and have invested ourselves in more than a couple. Is this one really ours? No, not technically yet, but it's darn close.
For now, the questions are moving away from "What will our monthly expenses be?" and "Is this a good location?" and instead becoming "What color should this room be?" and "Along which wall will we put the couch?" And that's close enough for me.
It was a little surreal. For one, this is the first time we've seen the apartment finished. The last time we went to the building, there were no appliances in the kitchen, not quite everything had been painted, and many of the little finishing touches had yet to be installed. The hallway on our floor had no carpet or paint as well, and truly felt like a construction zone. This time, nearly everything was in place, and it looked like a real apartment.
Our apartment, which was the other surreal part of it. We've been looking at apartments for a long time, and have seen so many, and have invested ourselves in more than a couple. Is this one really ours? No, not technically yet, but it's darn close.
For now, the questions are moving away from "What will our monthly expenses be?" and "Is this a good location?" and instead becoming "What color should this room be?" and "Along which wall will we put the couch?" And that's close enough for me.
Friday, March 19, 2010
What's My Age Again?
Pens aside, I've been talking with a lot of people lately about what it means to be a grown-up. Not surprisingly, I've gotten a lot of different answers. Some say you're a grown-up when you're legally responsible for yourself at 18, others when you're out of college, or married, or buying a first house, or are responsible for another human being in some way, or have gone through some cultural rite of passage. When you're in your twenties. When you're in your thirties. When people call you "sir." When you have more married friends than single friends. When you can't believe how young everyone else suddenly seems to be. The definitions seem to be endless.
One of the best responses I've gotten has been, "You know when you can ask that question of yourself, and are genuinely concerned about your response."
It may be because both of my parents are in the mental health field, but I've come to believe that the mark of adulthood is a certain level of personal responsibility and self control. (How's that for vague and high-minded?) An adult is in control of themselves by choice. They recognize and balance their own desires with those of their family, friends, and society.
And yet, by that definition, how many adults do I know? Virtually none. I know so few people who don't lose their temper publicly, make irrational decisions based on their temporary emotional state, or act out of selfishness or emotion, that I can count them in my head quickly. Politicians cheat, celebrities party like teenagers discovering alcohol for the first time, and everyone lies to others or themselves. I don't even qualify for adulthood myself by that generalized definition. On the other hand, I know plenty of people over the age of 18, out of college, married, or in important positions who occasionally, some more than others, behave like they're under 18, schoolchildren, single, and face no consequences.
Consequences, by the way, factored largely into the responses I've been hearing as well. Some say an adult has to face consequences. Others say an adult is able to face consequences. Yet others claim an adult is someone who foresees consequences and adjusts their own behavior accordingly. All variations on the theme.
I am in my late twenties. I am married. I am (tying to) buy a home. I have a job where I lead a team of people with little oversight. I pay bills. I analyze consequences before acting. Well, most of the time anyway. Do I get it? Am I a grown-up now?
Are you?
One of the best responses I've gotten has been, "You know when you can ask that question of yourself, and are genuinely concerned about your response."
It may be because both of my parents are in the mental health field, but I've come to believe that the mark of adulthood is a certain level of personal responsibility and self control. (How's that for vague and high-minded?) An adult is in control of themselves by choice. They recognize and balance their own desires with those of their family, friends, and society.
And yet, by that definition, how many adults do I know? Virtually none. I know so few people who don't lose their temper publicly, make irrational decisions based on their temporary emotional state, or act out of selfishness or emotion, that I can count them in my head quickly. Politicians cheat, celebrities party like teenagers discovering alcohol for the first time, and everyone lies to others or themselves. I don't even qualify for adulthood myself by that generalized definition. On the other hand, I know plenty of people over the age of 18, out of college, married, or in important positions who occasionally, some more than others, behave like they're under 18, schoolchildren, single, and face no consequences.
Consequences, by the way, factored largely into the responses I've been hearing as well. Some say an adult has to face consequences. Others say an adult is able to face consequences. Yet others claim an adult is someone who foresees consequences and adjusts their own behavior accordingly. All variations on the theme.
I am in my late twenties. I am married. I am (tying to) buy a home. I have a job where I lead a team of people with little oversight. I pay bills. I analyze consequences before acting. Well, most of the time anyway. Do I get it? Am I a grown-up now?
Are you?
Monday, March 15, 2010
So Maybe That Catch Isn't So Little
The new apartment saga continues. While our mortgage brokers and the bank lenders bicker about what forms we should or should not sign (all of which carry little real meaning), new regulations from Fannie Mae have thrown another wrench in the works of our new building.
The building was built with the first floor much larger than the upper floors. The first floor was intended to be large enough to hold a grocery store, or some other comparable commercial enterprise. Meanwhile, there's a two-level garage underneath the first floor. Compared to the upper floors, where the apartments are, roughly 60% of the floor area is commercial, leaving about 40% residential.
With the beginning of 2010 comes a new regulation stating that new condominiums cannot have more than 20% commercial space. Whoops.
Not sure where we go from here, but it looks like it'll be an interesting ride.
The building was built with the first floor much larger than the upper floors. The first floor was intended to be large enough to hold a grocery store, or some other comparable commercial enterprise. Meanwhile, there's a two-level garage underneath the first floor. Compared to the upper floors, where the apartments are, roughly 60% of the floor area is commercial, leaving about 40% residential.
With the beginning of 2010 comes a new regulation stating that new condominiums cannot have more than 20% commercial space. Whoops.
Not sure where we go from here, but it looks like it'll be an interesting ride.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Well, There is One Little Catch
Our contract on this new apartment is secure. Our mortgage application is in progress, but there's nothing really to be worried about at this point. But there is one possible catch in all this, and it involves the question nearly everyone has asked me since the last post.
When do we move in?
Because this building is new construction, they haven't quite secured their temporary certificate of occupancy (TCO) yet. That is, the city has not certified that the building is ready and safe for people to actually live in. Once the building receives their TCO, we'll close and move in between 30 and 45 days after.
They were expecting the TCO by the end of January. Hopefully, they'll get it soon.
When do we move in?
Because this building is new construction, they haven't quite secured their temporary certificate of occupancy (TCO) yet. That is, the city has not certified that the building is ready and safe for people to actually live in. Once the building receives their TCO, we'll close and move in between 30 and 45 days after.
They were expecting the TCO by the end of January. Hopefully, they'll get it soon.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Pen is Mightier
When I was young, I always knew how important something was by what pen my mother used to sign her name. If it was a permission slip for school, any bic lying around would do. But when she signed something important, she pulled a red leather sleeve from her purse. Out of that sleeve came the most beautiful gold Cross pen. This was important, this signature meant something, it needed the appropriate pen.
When I graduated high school, I had a diploma, wore a cap and gown, and celebrated with friends. But when my mother gave me my own gold Cross pen, I knew my life had changed. I was an adult, my signature meant something, I needed the appropriate pen. When I graduated from college, she gave me another gold Cross pen. Then I knew: I was on my own, I was making decisions for my life, I had to know when to use the appropriate pen.
* * *
After the first attempt at buying an apartment fell through, Lynn and I took some time off. But before long, we knew we had to get back on the horse and start looking at apartments again. So we hit the open house circuit and checked out some new possibilities. One was fantastic. It's in a new building, so everything is brand new. There are two bathrooms (this becomes important when you're married), great kitchen appliances, and even a washer and dryer. There's a roof deck with views on Manhattan, and the elevator goes all the way up for those of us who are too lazy to take stairs. It's a great apartment. And the most surprising part was that it is far more affordable than many of the other, older, apartments we've looked at.
We moved quickly, and made an offer. It was accepted that same day. Oh boy, I thought, here we are again with an accepted offer and needing to get to the contract phase. This time, though, things went smoothly. All the paperwork checked out and things were looking good. Our lawyer worked out the contract with the seller's lawyer, and in just a few days we were set.
I brought the contract home from our lawyer's office so Lynn and I could sign it together. We each signed with a gold Cross pen.
When I graduated high school, I had a diploma, wore a cap and gown, and celebrated with friends. But when my mother gave me my own gold Cross pen, I knew my life had changed. I was an adult, my signature meant something, I needed the appropriate pen. When I graduated from college, she gave me another gold Cross pen. Then I knew: I was on my own, I was making decisions for my life, I had to know when to use the appropriate pen.
* * *
After the first attempt at buying an apartment fell through, Lynn and I took some time off. But before long, we knew we had to get back on the horse and start looking at apartments again. So we hit the open house circuit and checked out some new possibilities. One was fantastic. It's in a new building, so everything is brand new. There are two bathrooms (this becomes important when you're married), great kitchen appliances, and even a washer and dryer. There's a roof deck with views on Manhattan, and the elevator goes all the way up for those of us who are too lazy to take stairs. It's a great apartment. And the most surprising part was that it is far more affordable than many of the other, older, apartments we've looked at.We moved quickly, and made an offer. It was accepted that same day. Oh boy, I thought, here we are again with an accepted offer and needing to get to the contract phase. This time, though, things went smoothly. All the paperwork checked out and things were looking good. Our lawyer worked out the contract with the seller's lawyer, and in just a few days we were set.
I brought the contract home from our lawyer's office so Lynn and I could sign it together. We each signed with a gold Cross pen.
Friday, February 05, 2010
So Close, and Yet So Far
Lynn and I have been house-hunting. Well, I guess you could say we've been causally browsing for over a year, stopping by open houses in our neighborhood on weekends. Just before Christmas, we really started seriously looking—and finding.
We settled on a very nice apartment on Montague Street in our neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. It had two bedrooms, 1.5 baths, and was a duplex spread over two floors. We loved the light, the feel, and were drooling over the space. It seemed like a little two-story house, tucked away in a historic Queen Anne-style apartment building in the middle of our fantastic neighborhood. What could go wrong?
Lots, apparently.
First it was the price. The sellers, in defiance of the current economy, the housing market, and their own broker's advice, set the price way too high. We knew we could not afford it at their price, but we also knew it wasn't actually worth that price. Or at the very least, this market would not support that price.
So, at the advice of our broker, we offered a significantly lower price. To the sellers, it must have looked like a low-ball offer. To us, it was the highest we could afford—and a stretch at that. Initially, the sellers countered our offer with a number that didn't show any seriousness in negotiating at all. After all, we knew, they had already turned down offers higher than ours. We went back and said that our first offer really was our "best and final," and we were willing to walk away if they felt it was too low. They accepted.
Thus began the rush to get into contract. We had an inspection, the apartment passed with flying colors. We had to look into the financial history of the building, which is a co-op, and do the due diligence there. Here is where things fell apart.
A co-op, as most of you who don't live in NYC may now know, is different from a condominium situation. In a condo, you own your apartment, it is your property. In a co-op, you own a share in the "company" that owns the building. Your share is proportional to the size of your apartment, and you own the permanent lease on your apartment. With co-op buildings, the co-op board of directors also wields extensive powers over the building and its finances, so it is vital to check into the history of the board's behavior.
This particular co-op board took very good care of the building. They also tried to take care of their residents by now raising the common charges. But they did this on debt, acquiring a huge mortgage on the building, taking out a line of credit, and depleting their reserves.
And then there was the elevator. Two years ago, the elevator was found to be in bad shape. They could update it to the turn of $250,000 or perform several small maintenance repairs that would make it last another two years. Well, those two years are over, and it's time to update the elevator. Because the building has so much debt, and no reserves, that money has to come from the residents. It was too much money for us.
We went back to the sellers, explained the extra expenses and offer an even lower price to off-set paying for the elevator. They declined. We moved on. We sure learned a lot about the process, though.
And it definitely helped prepare us for the next apartment. To be continued...
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Cass Gilbert Connection
I am by no means an architecture buff. I enjoy a beautiful building as much as the next person, but am typically more interested in why it was built than how. I've learned to discern the Federalist and Queen Anne brownstones in my neighborhood from the Victorian brownstones of Park Slope, and to identify some other large trends in architecture through time, but this again is because of their historical context.
Still, I find myself gravitating toward the Beaux-Arts and Neo-Gothic architectural styles, and to one of that era's star architects Cass Gilbert. There's something about the optimism inherent in these grand structures, as if upstart America really could contribute to the vast architectural heritage of the world, that keeps drawing my eye.
It's through this that the Woolworth Tower has always been my favorite skyscraper in New York. Completed in 1913 by Cass Gilbert, and paid for in cash by Frank Woolworth (all $13.5 million), it has always struck me as the most beautiful of of the major skyscrapers in New York. And in a show of levity typical of Gilbert, there are little details hidden in plain site on the tower. There's a gecko scaling one face high up on the tower, for example, only visible with a good pair of binoculars and just the right viewing angle. Gilbert made beautiful buildings, and found a way to keep them fun as well.
When I first moved to 90 West Street, a stunning neo-Gothic building in its own right, one of the best features of my apartment was the view east to the Woolworth Tower. I was surprised and excited to learn that 90 West was also one of Cass Gilbert's buildings. Built it 1907, it was actually the precursor to the Woolworth Tower, Gilbert used it to test some of his Gothic stylings. Like the Woolworth Tower after it, Gilbert played with the design of 90 West, adding Gargoyles with his relatives' faces. It was really through living in this building that I begun to learn more about Gilbert, and to appreciate his style.
I've since learned more random connections with Gilbert. He was named for an ancestor of his, Lewis Cass. Cass was governor of the Michigan territory (before it became a state), American Ambassador to France, US Senator for Michigan, and Secretary of State. To understand his impact, I need only consider that my own mother lives just off of Cass Boulevard, and for many years worked in the Lewis Cass Building in Michigan's state capitol. (In fact, there are a myriad of places named after him.)
In my travels, I've begun to pay more attention to buildings in particular. And I still find myself drawn to Cass Gilbert's buildings across the country even without knowing about them. The US Supreme Court Building, the state capitol of Minnesota, and many buildings around New York have all drawn my eye. They are all Gilbert's.
Recently, I flew to Saint Louis to help launch a new Chapter of Mu Beta Psi. One day, we went to the Saint Louis Zoo, which sits in Forest Park just down a hill from the Museum of Art. I enjoyed the zoo, but kept looking up at the Museum. My last day in the city I had some time to myself, so I went back to the park and walked around the Museum. It felt so familiar. I asked the gentleman at the information desk if he knew much about the building itself. He replied, oh yes, it was built in 1904 for the World's Fair by Cass Gilbert.
Of course.
Now I find myself looking for them. There are quite a few, but I will see as many as I can.
Still, I find myself gravitating toward the Beaux-Arts and Neo-Gothic architectural styles, and to one of that era's star architects Cass Gilbert. There's something about the optimism inherent in these grand structures, as if upstart America really could contribute to the vast architectural heritage of the world, that keeps drawing my eye.
It's through this that the Woolworth Tower has always been my favorite skyscraper in New York. Completed in 1913 by Cass Gilbert, and paid for in cash by Frank Woolworth (all $13.5 million), it has always struck me as the most beautiful of of the major skyscrapers in New York. And in a show of levity typical of Gilbert, there are little details hidden in plain site on the tower. There's a gecko scaling one face high up on the tower, for example, only visible with a good pair of binoculars and just the right viewing angle. Gilbert made beautiful buildings, and found a way to keep them fun as well.When I first moved to 90 West Street, a stunning neo-Gothic building in its own right, one of the best features of my apartment was the view east to the Woolworth Tower. I was surprised and excited to learn that 90 West was also one of Cass Gilbert's buildings. Built it 1907, it was actually the precursor to the Woolworth Tower, Gilbert used it to test some of his Gothic stylings. Like the Woolworth Tower after it, Gilbert played with the design of 90 West, adding Gargoyles with his relatives' faces. It was really through living in this building that I begun to learn more about Gilbert, and to appreciate his style.I've since learned more random connections with Gilbert. He was named for an ancestor of his, Lewis Cass. Cass was governor of the Michigan territory (before it became a state), American Ambassador to France, US Senator for Michigan, and Secretary of State. To understand his impact, I need only consider that my own mother lives just off of Cass Boulevard, and for many years worked in the Lewis Cass Building in Michigan's state capitol. (In fact, there are a myriad of places named after him.)
In my travels, I've begun to pay more attention to buildings in particular. And I still find myself drawn to Cass Gilbert's buildings across the country even without knowing about them. The US Supreme Court Building, the state capitol of Minnesota, and many buildings around New York have all drawn my eye. They are all Gilbert's.
Recently, I flew to Saint Louis to help launch a new Chapter of Mu Beta Psi. One day, we went to the Saint Louis Zoo, which sits in Forest Park just down a hill from the Museum of Art. I enjoyed the zoo, but kept looking up at the Museum. My last day in the city I had some time to myself, so I went back to the park and walked around the Museum. It felt so familiar. I asked the gentleman at the information desk if he knew much about the building itself. He replied, oh yes, it was built in 1904 for the World's Fair by Cass Gilbert.Of course.
Now I find myself looking for them. There are quite a few, but I will see as many as I can.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
"Poor Little Rhode Island...."
While exploring "upstate" Connecticut during our anniversary weekend, Lynn and I drove to a small town just inside Rhode Island. We had no particular purpose other than it was one of the two states east of the Mississippi River that I hadn't seen.
Westerly, Rhode Island was a fairly typical town. But I kept thinking of my grandmother. When I was kid spending time at my grandparents' house, she would often sing to herself while cleaning or cooking. They were never songs I knew, but I loved hearing them and would follow her around the house listening. I had to be careful and quiet, because she tended to stop and pay attention to me if she saw me. One song I can still hear in her voice:
Westerly, Rhode Island was a fairly typical town. But I kept thinking of my grandmother. When I was kid spending time at my grandparents' house, she would often sing to herself while cleaning or cooking. They were never songs I knew, but I loved hearing them and would follow her around the house listening. I had to be careful and quiet, because she tended to stop and pay attention to me if she saw me. One song I can still hear in her voice:
Poor little Rhode Island,I haven't seen my grandma in person for a long time, but it was nice to meet her in Rhode Island.
Smallest of the forty-eight!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
A Year is as a Day
I've always been fascinated by the perception of time passing. I remember as a six-year-old being told that Christmas would come around next year. Next year? Whoa, that's 1/6th of my entire life, that's practically forever! Talking with my grandparents, they speak of years as if they were days. And when you're talking about 1/86th of a lifetime, it's easy to see how little time a year can be.
Lynn and I celebrated our first year of marriage at the beginning of this month. At turns it is by far the longest and the shortest of years. So much has happened: we've moved, I took a new job, we've traveled far and wide, and adopted a cat—we've lived a full year.
And yet, has it really been that long? Has it really been an entire year since we gathered together with so many friends and family members? There are some folks reading this very post who I haven't seen in a year, surely not a whole year has gone by. I look at the ring on my finger. It's a bit dinged up, turns out I'm not very kind to my hands. But I still notice it, I still fiddle with it. It still feels new.
It was with this mix of feelings about how much and how little time has passed that Lynn and I decided to spend the weekend of our first anniversary back in the area where we were married. We stayed in the same hotel as our wedding weekend, and had dinner at the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner was held. We even went up to visit the place where our ceremony was held and took a few pictures.
It put things in perspective. A year. Not a long year, not a short year, but a good year. A year full of change and excitement, and not a small amount of struggle and learning. A year in which we learned what it means to make a life from two, and from which we can go confidently into the next. There will be a time when this whole year will seem like a day. But it will always be a day worth remembering, full of years of good experiences.
Lynn and I celebrated our first year of marriage at the beginning of this month. At turns it is by far the longest and the shortest of years. So much has happened: we've moved, I took a new job, we've traveled far and wide, and adopted a cat—we've lived a full year.
And yet, has it really been that long? Has it really been an entire year since we gathered together with so many friends and family members? There are some folks reading this very post who I haven't seen in a year, surely not a whole year has gone by. I look at the ring on my finger. It's a bit dinged up, turns out I'm not very kind to my hands. But I still notice it, I still fiddle with it. It still feels new.
It was with this mix of feelings about how much and how little time has passed that Lynn and I decided to spend the weekend of our first anniversary back in the area where we were married. We stayed in the same hotel as our wedding weekend, and had dinner at the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner was held. We even went up to visit the place where our ceremony was held and took a few pictures.
It put things in perspective. A year. Not a long year, not a short year, but a good year. A year full of change and excitement, and not a small amount of struggle and learning. A year in which we learned what it means to make a life from two, and from which we can go confidently into the next. There will be a time when this whole year will seem like a day. But it will always be a day worth remembering, full of years of good experiences.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Traveling Vicariously
A friend of mine is currently on a cross-country trip of a lifetime. Her office shut down, her Brooklyn lease expired, she bought a car and started driving. At the send-off party she had a little book for people to write suggestions in for destinations. Maybe she'll hit them all, maybe she'll find some little town somewhere and start a new life.
I've always loved to travel, and I do so whenever I can get enough free time and money simultaneously. But to really cut all ties to a home and set off across the country alone is both admirable and frightening. The kind of thing we only talk about doing.
As my friend swung up through New England, and west through Ontario, she found herself in my home state. Following her Twitter updates, I saw she was minutes away from my mother's house, and helped orchestrate a bed to sleep in that night. I suggested she head through da UP and got to Houghton, and sketched out a true Copper Country Cruisin' route that took her through many of the best sites of the Keweenaw.
The strange thing is that it made me feel...what? Is this homesickness? I can't say I've really felt it before, but I suddenly have this incredible longing to ride a bike around Milford. Or to build a bonfire on the shore of Lake Superior. Or to just drive long and far, through all of the familiar sights of a place that was once mine.
My friend, meanwhile, has crossed the Mississippi in Minnesota and is headed to "all points West." She blogs about her adventures here.
I've always loved to travel, and I do so whenever I can get enough free time and money simultaneously. But to really cut all ties to a home and set off across the country alone is both admirable and frightening. The kind of thing we only talk about doing.
As my friend swung up through New England, and west through Ontario, she found herself in my home state. Following her Twitter updates, I saw she was minutes away from my mother's house, and helped orchestrate a bed to sleep in that night. I suggested she head through da UP and got to Houghton, and sketched out a true Copper Country Cruisin' route that took her through many of the best sites of the Keweenaw.
The strange thing is that it made me feel...what? Is this homesickness? I can't say I've really felt it before, but I suddenly have this incredible longing to ride a bike around Milford. Or to build a bonfire on the shore of Lake Superior. Or to just drive long and far, through all of the familiar sights of a place that was once mine.
My friend, meanwhile, has crossed the Mississippi in Minnesota and is headed to "all points West." She blogs about her adventures here.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Lords of Slane, Keepers of the Paschal Fire
(Cross-posted from the Fleming Family Blog.)
Last month I spent a week wandering around Ireland. It was a bit of a fluke, really, I wanted to take a week off after finishing at one company and before starting at my current one. A few minutes' search on Orbitz.com, and I found surprisingly cheap tickets to Dublin. Ireland is a beautiful country, and full of vivid and amazing stories. "History should not be bogged down with facts," one gentleman told me, "It's the stories that matter."
Along the way, I visited Slane, a small village north of Dublin in the Boyne Valley. I did not know before-hand the significance of the place, as it was one stop of a historical tour focusing on the Celtic culture. But when we arrived at the Hill of Slane, the tallest hill for ten miles in any direction, my guide patted me on the shoulder and said, "Mr. Fleming, welcome back."
Any Flemings in the US that trace their heritage to Ireland today are descended from two branches of the Fleming Family that came from Flanders via Scotland (where the name persisted as Flemming).
In 1370, following the invasion of Henry II of England, the Barony of Slane was created and given as a reward to Richard and Thomas Fleming for their part in the war. They, and their descendants the Fleming Family, were Lords of Slane for three hundred years. (The other branch of Flemings became viscounts of Longford.) Loyal to king James II, they lost the Barony of Slane when James fell to William of Orange in 1691. Slane castle stood on the Hill of Slane until the Flemings built a newer castle in the valley below.
But there's another story about the Hill of Slane that, although largely apocryphal, is dear to the hearts of many Irish Catholics. My guide told me the following story that day.
Saint Patrick, perhaps the most famous Irishman of all, was not Irish. He was a Roman, born in the British territory to a wealthy famliy living on the west coast of England. The Romans never conquered Ireland, leaving it to the Celts. When he was a teenager, he was captured by Celtic raiders and taken to Ireland as a slave. He spent six years there before escaping back to Britain and joining the Church. As an adult, he saw that Christianity wasn't doing so well in Ireland, the missionaries didn't have the cultural experience he had to really communicate with the Celts about Jesus.
Patrick knew the Celts, he knew their beliefs, and he knew what was important to them. So he returned to Ireland on a mission of his own, and in the springtime went to the Hill of Slane.
Ten miles away rose the Hill of Tara, the seat of the High King of Celtic Ireland. Every spring, around the vernal equinox, a great celebration was held on Tara. The High King himself would light a ceremonial fire that would burn for days, and all other fires throughout Ireland were to be put out during this festival. Storytellers from all clans traveled to Tara so they could bring news of the festival back to every corner of Ireland.
Patrick knew this, and so began the biggest publicity stunt Ireland had ever known. As the festival began, and the Tara fire was blazing as the only fire in sight, the revelers saw another light struck on Slane. Patrick had lit a fire well within view of the King's fire, and even bigger. The King was furious at this defiance, and immediately dispatched his army to Slane to destroy any rivals they might find there.
The army marched across Boyne Valley, the best and strongest warriors who served the King, some 200 to 20,000 (depending on who tells the story). When they arrived ready to fight an invading army, they found only Patrick, unarmed but running right at them down the hill. They were so taken aback by this show of bravery that they completely failed to kill him. Instead, he convinced them to take him back to the King to explain himself. Patrick told the King about Jesus, about a God so powerful that Patrick knew he need not fear the King's army. The King was impressed, and not only allowed Patrick to live, but allowed him to continue his mission throughout Ireland. (Of course, he was greatly helped by all the storytellers present at Tara who also told the story far and wide.)
Eventually a monastery was built on the Hill of Slane, the ruins of which you can see in the pictures above. Every year at Easter, a paschal fire is lit on the spot where Patrick lit his fire. For three hundred years, the eldest Baron Fleming lit the fire, proclaiming the light of Christianity to the Boyne Valley.
Last month I spent a week wandering around Ireland. It was a bit of a fluke, really, I wanted to take a week off after finishing at one company and before starting at my current one. A few minutes' search on Orbitz.com, and I found surprisingly cheap tickets to Dublin. Ireland is a beautiful country, and full of vivid and amazing stories. "History should not be bogged down with facts," one gentleman told me, "It's the stories that matter."
Along the way, I visited Slane, a small village north of Dublin in the Boyne Valley. I did not know before-hand the significance of the place, as it was one stop of a historical tour focusing on the Celtic culture. But when we arrived at the Hill of Slane, the tallest hill for ten miles in any direction, my guide patted me on the shoulder and said, "Mr. Fleming, welcome back."Any Flemings in the US that trace their heritage to Ireland today are descended from two branches of the Fleming Family that came from Flanders via Scotland (where the name persisted as Flemming).
In 1370, following the invasion of Henry II of England, the Barony of Slane was created and given as a reward to Richard and Thomas Fleming for their part in the war. They, and their descendants the Fleming Family, were Lords of Slane for three hundred years. (The other branch of Flemings became viscounts of Longford.) Loyal to king James II, they lost the Barony of Slane when James fell to William of Orange in 1691. Slane castle stood on the Hill of Slane until the Flemings built a newer castle in the valley below.But there's another story about the Hill of Slane that, although largely apocryphal, is dear to the hearts of many Irish Catholics. My guide told me the following story that day.
Saint Patrick, perhaps the most famous Irishman of all, was not Irish. He was a Roman, born in the British territory to a wealthy famliy living on the west coast of England. The Romans never conquered Ireland, leaving it to the Celts. When he was a teenager, he was captured by Celtic raiders and taken to Ireland as a slave. He spent six years there before escaping back to Britain and joining the Church. As an adult, he saw that Christianity wasn't doing so well in Ireland, the missionaries didn't have the cultural experience he had to really communicate with the Celts about Jesus.
Patrick knew the Celts, he knew their beliefs, and he knew what was important to them. So he returned to Ireland on a mission of his own, and in the springtime went to the Hill of Slane.
Ten miles away rose the Hill of Tara, the seat of the High King of Celtic Ireland. Every spring, around the vernal equinox, a great celebration was held on Tara. The High King himself would light a ceremonial fire that would burn for days, and all other fires throughout Ireland were to be put out during this festival. Storytellers from all clans traveled to Tara so they could bring news of the festival back to every corner of Ireland.
Patrick knew this, and so began the biggest publicity stunt Ireland had ever known. As the festival began, and the Tara fire was blazing as the only fire in sight, the revelers saw another light struck on Slane. Patrick had lit a fire well within view of the King's fire, and even bigger. The King was furious at this defiance, and immediately dispatched his army to Slane to destroy any rivals they might find there.
The army marched across Boyne Valley, the best and strongest warriors who served the King, some 200 to 20,000 (depending on who tells the story). When they arrived ready to fight an invading army, they found only Patrick, unarmed but running right at them down the hill. They were so taken aback by this show of bravery that they completely failed to kill him. Instead, he convinced them to take him back to the King to explain himself. Patrick told the King about Jesus, about a God so powerful that Patrick knew he need not fear the King's army. The King was impressed, and not only allowed Patrick to live, but allowed him to continue his mission throughout Ireland. (Of course, he was greatly helped by all the storytellers present at Tara who also told the story far and wide.)
Eventually a monastery was built on the Hill of Slane, the ruins of which you can see in the pictures above. Every year at Easter, a paschal fire is lit on the spot where Patrick lit his fire. For three hundred years, the eldest Baron Fleming lit the fire, proclaiming the light of Christianity to the Boyne Valley.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Things Happen So Fast
It certainly does seem that way, doesn't it? So much has changed in just a few short weeks. I left my old job to start at a new company. It was odd, having been there for two and a half years, to leave all the people I've come to rely on every day. But the time was right. The new job is pretty fantastic, and as I'm settling into it I'm liking it more and more.
In between the end of one era and the beginning of the next, I went to Ireland. Why Ireland? Cheapest flights I could find. My friend Andy happened to be visiting us when I made the decision, and as luck would have it he could take a week off too. So we went, with no plans, and very little knowledge of the country or geography. It was great. We found wonderful things to do, fantastic people, and lots of great beer. Maybe one of these days I'll write more about it. But I doubt it. There's just never enough time in the day.
Things happen so fast.
Lynn and I, in an attempt to curb our parents' calls for an expanded family, adopted a kitten. We're calling him Louis, after Satchmo, of course. He's an all-too-adorable little tabby cat who's fearless around people and loves to cuddle—that is, when he's not tearing something apart.
Now that the summer is stretching out ahead, we're hoping things will calm down a bit. We have no plans this weekend, and that's a welcome change.
In between the end of one era and the beginning of the next, I went to Ireland. Why Ireland? Cheapest flights I could find. My friend Andy happened to be visiting us when I made the decision, and as luck would have it he could take a week off too. So we went, with no plans, and very little knowledge of the country or geography. It was great. We found wonderful things to do, fantastic people, and lots of great beer. Maybe one of these days I'll write more about it. But I doubt it. There's just never enough time in the day.
Things happen so fast.
Lynn and I, in an attempt to curb our parents' calls for an expanded family, adopted a kitten. We're calling him Louis, after Satchmo, of course. He's an all-too-adorable little tabby cat who's fearless around people and loves to cuddle—that is, when he's not tearing something apart.
Now that the summer is stretching out ahead, we're hoping things will calm down a bit. We have no plans this weekend, and that's a welcome change.
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