Amy Odell

It is an uncomfortable sight, watching thousands of fireworks rocket into the sky from every crevice of the city blocks all around you. It’s kind of like watching a bunch of people snort cocaine: you kind of want to join them just for the thrill and the sake of being a part of something but, ugh: gross! Continue reading →

Nice to meet you! My name is Yelena and I’m eager to help you find an apartment in Manhattan where you can live for at least a year until the rent is raised and you won’t be able to afford it anymore. A budget of $1,900 a month can definitely get you something great in a desirable location.

First, if you’re really looking for a bargain, you might enjoy a studio in Soho, that costs just $1600 a month because it’s rent-controlled. It’s really pretty! It has TWO windows that real sunlight shines through! The building is old so everything outside the apartment looks grimy and like it might attract pests like roaches or mice. But the apartment is completely gut-renovated and has hardwood floors! And two closets that, if you combine them, just about make one closet that you might find in the entryway of most dorm rooms in the nation. Also, you probably eat every meal out, being a  young professional, right? Which you can keep doing with this apartment because the kitchen has no oven, no counter space, and only enough cabinetry to fit four pairs of shoes. Flat shoes.

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I love this story, as told to me by a close friend, who I’ll call Tom in case he ever decides to run for office, because I feel it so profoundly explores two of New York City’s most horrific horrors: dating and prohibitively expensive real estate.

Remember how I was dating that guy, Eric? He lived in Hell’s Kitchen and I stayed over one night. I guess I was pretty drunk the night before — we must have just stumbled into his apartment and passed out because I didn’t remember that he had a situation with his bathroom. So the next morning, I wanted to go to the bathroom, so I ask him, “Where’s the bathroom?” He says, “Oh, it’s just down the hall.” I’m thinking, “Uhhh… down the hall?” He goes, “Yeah, I just share it with some people on this floor.” So I take the key — THE KEY — and go down the hall to the bathroom. And I go in and there’s no toilet paper. So I walk back down the hall and I say to Eric, “I didn’t see any toilet paper in there, do you have any?” And he says to me, “Oh actually, I ran out of toilet paper but I’ve been using coffee filters–” and he starts going for the box of coffee filters and I’m like “I have to go.” So I left and never spoke to him again.

At the risk of accruing stalkers, I will reveal: I live in Zone A, the Battery Park area, where Hurricane Irene threatened to raise sea levels to the fourth floor of what are normally very dry buildings. That newscasters’ wet dream never came to pass: circa 3 p.m. on the Day After Tomorrow, the street is practically dry. And I am home with my cat and a good excuse for carelessly consuming my hurricane rations.

The lack of heavy lubricant hardly amounted to a yeast infection for the neighborhood. If I weren’t buzzed enough off our hurricane alcohol to not feel like doing physical activity, I would have been on at least an eight mile run by now, no problem. Alas, my friend, Tess, who took me in as a hurricane refugee, wouldn’t let me leave until I helped her finish the last bottle of Gato Negro in her fridge. So I’m sitting on my couch, well, buzzed.

Gato Negro, cheap wine snobs will tell you, is not the best gotta-get-drunk-now wine option. However, I felt it was on-theme, considering my cat, who refugeed with me in Tess’s apartment, and Tess’s cat who lives there full-time, are black.

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