WEST SIDE STORY

I was so lucky. I managed to sell my London apt. just as the crash started to have an effect on the property market. So, I didn’t get quite the handsome sum I had envisioned for my London flat. but I managed to sell it, which was more than I can say for many people. I headed back to the USA, walked into my summer home with a good dose of arrhythmia from the stress, settled down a bit and, in the autumn and winter, started to look for a NYC apt.

I was aided in this effort by my niece, C, a practicing real estate broker (estate agent to those from the other side of the pond). C is charming, beautiful and competent—in short, everything I am not-- but she is also a veritable Rottweiler when it comes to business. Like a dog with a bone, she does not let go until she has reached her goal for her client. This is excellent news for those of us who want to get things done quickly. She knows exactly what her client wants, even if they do not, and goes for it. She does not stand for any funny business, does not let her client buy anything they will regret. So, whereas I went in saying I did not want an apt. where you came directly into the kitchen, I wanted a condo which I could eventually rent, and I wanted to be a floor above 4, I have bought a co-op on the 2^nd floor where you walk directly into the kitchen. But, hey, that’s ok; she did not let me buy the completely dilapidated apt. with plenty of room I thought I might do up and whose building had an entrance way like Grand Central Station. She did not let me buy the magnificent 23rd floor apt. over on the upper east side while I really wanted to be near my daughter on the west side. And we had lovely afternoons sipping hot chocolate and reviewing the apts. we had seen.

C is French but she has been duly Americanized by my nephew and her long stay on these shores. She is a shining example, to me, of what can and will no doubt happen to a European who spends too much time here. She checked in with her Nanny every afternoon for a 15 minute conversation ensuring that little A had been duly sanitized, debugged and debriefed on her return from play dates. Since my own daughter, now 26, grew up with her own wheelbarrow and was placed on various dirty floors to play, these conversations C has are eye openers. But I am not criticizing, I hasten to say: it was me who whipped out the hand sanitizer (circa 2006 from a trip to Machu Picchu) after an open house where the broker on duty was sniffling all over the place. We stood out on Broadway and 81^st spraying ourselves as if we had just been exposed to Ebola in a major effort not to catch his cold.

Now here was a difficult situation. Prices were tumbling and I had no idea what to offer on the various apt.s in which I was interested. We went through several permutations of offers, rejections, counter bids, valuations for remodeling and second serious offers. In the end my offer was accepted on this lovely corner apt. overlooking the museums and park, 5 blocks from my daughter. As any New Yorker knows: this was only the beginning…