Grey's Journal:
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``OK, here's the plan: you and I are a young couple looking for a flat. I have a job teaching science at an elite private school in London and you will be taking over as the CEO of a small transnational corporation.'' ``I'm going to tell them I'm Polish. Poland just joined the European Union.'' I rolled my eyes. ``You can pass for many ethnicities Zornitsa, but Polish is not one of them. Say you're Estonian or something.'' ``I don't want to be Estonian. Do you even know what an Estonian looks like?'' ``Not really.'' ``Do you know where Estonia is?'' ``Sure I do it's right by mumble-mumble in Eastern Europe.'' Our time in the London Metropolitan dorms was coming to a close and Zornitsa and I were discussing plans for finding a new flat. We suspected that reputable landlords might be hesitant to take on two unemployed foreigners as tenants, so we were trying to fabricate a story that would make us look a little better. I'm not sure when or how Zornitsa and I decided that we would look for a place to live together, I guess it's just one of those things good friends know without needing to discuss. However it happened, enlisting another person to help me look for my next place to live was, for me, a tremendous advantage. For me, the goal of finding a new flat was too big, ill-defined and overwhelming. There were too many potential flats and too little information. If left on my own to accomplish the task I would have waited until the last week and then simply accepted the first flat I saw -- I'd end up living in either a dangerous slum or in a penthouse I couldn't afford. Fortunately for me, Zornitsa scanned the entire internet, acting as an efficient first-pass filter, returning good-looking flats with low prices and, in the process, acquiring enough knowledge about London to start her own real estate business. When she finished (and before I even thought to start), she handed me the contact numbers of agencies and, with a `make it so, number one' look on her face, told me: ``These are the flats we will see.'' Now this was the kind of job I liked. It was a specific goal: two flats to see on Tuesday and eight flats to see on Saturday. I charged my cell phone and got to work. On the phone I like to pretend I'm my father. I grew up listening to my dad doing important-sounding things all day long on the phone. What he did I never knew and still don't know. His official story is that he is both a tax attorney and the director of adult education at my former high school, which somehow translates into organizing and leading trips to Russia and Vietnam. It wouldn't surprise me if he confessed to me on his deathbed that he was really a legal consultant for the Mafia. I may pretend to be my dad on the phone, but I'm no where near as good as him. While I can emulate his phone-voice -- deeper, cleared and more resonant than normal -- I sometimes have trouble with the actual information exchange. My dad smoothly and confidently asks his questions and gives whatever answers are necessary. But before I can call anyone, I need to run a script over in my head of the likely paths the conversation will take; I write notes on the topics I need to cover and include any information I may be required to give. I've learned from experience that relevant data evacuates my head when I'm on the phone. Unplanned conversations will go something like this: ``Hello. HSBC. How may we help you?'' ``Hello there, I've forgotten my PIN, again.'' ``Ah, this must be Mr. Grey? What is this, the fourth time in six months? I'm just going to need some personal information to verify your identity. First, what is your phone number?'' A moment's pause as I search my mind for the eleven digits. ``I'm sorry, I don't really know.'' I lie to cover my dignity, ``It's a new cell phone I haven't had an opportunity to learn the number.'' ``No problem, can you please give us your home address?'' Another pause as, once again, I blank out. ``Um... it's a new flat? I just moved here today and haven't had the time to learn the address?'' At this point the person on the other end either hangs up the phone, thinking it was a prank call, or they assume they are dealing with a mentally challenged individual. I practiced my little scripts for the first agent to call, but perhaps I should have given myself more preparation time because when I rung I said: ``Hello Grey! This is Tom.'' It took a second before I realized I had reversed our names and lamely tried to correct the error. ``...I mean hello Tom, this is Grey.'' But, the remainder of the calls went smoothly. It was fun arranging the eight flats to see on Saturday, determining what slots of time were free and trying to guesstimate how long it would take to travel between these places. I got to feel that I was an important person, calling my subordinates and trying to coordinate them all around my demands for the day. Tuesday
Zornitsa and I got off at an Underground station in South London and proceeded to walk to our first flat. She had high hopes for this one as there was a (somewhat dark) photo of a very nice looking kitchen. As a bonus, the price of the flat had been dropping the past few weeks. I, however, remained more cautious, ``Yes, but why is the rent getting reduced?'' I tried to imagine what horrors may lurk just outside the boundaries of the photograph we had seen. As we approached the address our doubts began to grow. The area became more derelict the further from the underground we traveled. Eventually we found the entrance to our flat, a green door between shops on the street. Through the glass window we could see a concrete front `garden' and behind that there were doorways and stairs leading to the individual flats. We waited outside for the agent and in a few moments a couple joined us who were also there to look at the flat. They were in their twenties, he very tall and she very short. He flashed a phony smile and leaned in to talk to me like we were friends. ``You here to look at the flat?'' ``Yes.'' ``You know much about this area?'' ``No.'' ``Well then,'' he drew closer, as though he was going to put his arm around me and confess a secret. The smile growing larger, ``You should know this is one of the crappiest areas of London.'' ``Oh really?'' I asked, trying to look grave and not smirking like I would have naturally, for I wanted to add: `then why are you looking here? I'm unemployed and didn't know any better. You are wearing a suit and appear to be well educated so what's your excuse?' He continued talking to me, trying to convince me that the flat was simply not worth my time to even view (thus ridding himself of any potential competition I might provide) until the agent finally showed up. The first thing I noticed when we entered was the barbed wire running atop the walls that enclosed our concrete garden. This was not a good sign. Either the area was so rough that barbed wire was needed to keep thugs out, or the flat was so bad it was needed to keep tenants in after they signed their lease. Inside the flat my new friend played the roll of Mr. Big Shot, asking the agent all sorts of obscure questions. I ended up walking around the flat with his girlfriend. She talked to me about the flat, radiating such genuine openness and honesty that it felt we were looking for a place together. I wondered how she ended up with Mr. Phony. The barbed wire should have been enough to make us walk away. The inside of the flat was cramped and everything was dirty. As Zornitsa observed upon seeing the condition of the kitchen up close: ``Now I know why they make the photos so dark.'' Saturday
Saturday was the big day. We had eight flats lined up. By default, I was in charge of directions. My history of getting lost is well known to readers, so it may seem odd that this job fell to me. But, Zornitsa is even worse than myself at getting to unknown locations. Between the two of us, we have the navigational abilities of a de-magnetized compass. Our first stop was in South East London at 11 AM. We arrived at the agency on time and got into a car with a stressed looking woman who confessed immediately that she wasn't really sure where our first flat was and she only did this on the weekends. After examining a photocopied and near-illegible map, she pulled her tiny car out of a tiny parking spot into the tiny road by executing a twenty-three-point turn. She started to make some pleasant small talk, but she abruptly cut if off with, ``Damn! Not this street!'' and made a violent and unexpected U-turn. So it began. We spent the next thirty minutes in the car trying to find a flat that was, on later inspection, only two minutes from the agency. Our agent, after discovering for the n-th time that she was going in the wrong direction, would mutter something like ``fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck Shit!'' under her breath while making another dangerous U-turn or darting across busy lanes of traffic. She would then immediately apologize for her bad language (which was of much less concern to me than the bad driving), realize that she was still not going in her intended direction and the process would renew itself. There was one particularly heart-stoping moment when we drove the wrong way into a roundabout, narrowly missing the oncoming traffic by driving onto the sidewalk. Our agent's response: ``Well, I don't know where that came from,'' as though the roundabout was a deer that had leapt into her way and not a structure that had taken months to plan and build. In spite of this (or perhaps because of it), she was my favorite agent for the day by a wide margin. Three nice flats and many life-or-death situations later, Zornitsa and I departed her company for our next agent in South West London. *
* *
I was on the bus, juggling my London A-Z and numerous yellow sheets of paper with addresses and notes written on them, trying to figure out what stop we needed to get off at. Unlike the newbie-friendly Underground, the stops on the bus are neither announced nor marked, so the first time you go anywhere it is little more than an educated guess when to alight. We landed in the middle of a busy market street in Peckham. Lots of brightly dressed black people were selling everything from CDs and cell phones to plant and animal matter unidentifiable to me. It felt like a market in some tropical third-world country. Once again, I consulted my London A-Z. ``Hmmm...'' I said with a frown growing on my face. ``I think we should have gotten off much earlier.'' I showed Zornitsa on the map where I thought the agency was and the direction the bus had taken past it. She was not happy. ``Why do you make me walk all this way?'' On the bus Zornitsa had tried to discuss the flats we saw while getting annoyed with me for not listening to her as I tried to figure out were to get off. In addition, we were late for our next meeting. I really hate to be late for anything, so my nerves were frayed. ``Look,'' I said, my voice taking on an overly measured and articulated quality as it does when I'm annoyed. ``I didn't intend to make you walk farther than necessary; I didn't secretly know that we should have gotten off five stops earlier. If you would like to try and navigate in an unfamiliar area of London,'' here I made a dramatic showing of all the maps and papers I carried, ``be my guest.'' Zornitsa made no attempt to become the chief navigator (for which I was secretly grateful) and thus I remained the Magellan of our trip. We marched on in what I hoped was the right direction, but as I consulted the map, I realized that I didn't really know where to go. The agency was on a street called Peckham, but, I noticed now, there were about eight streets in the area sharing that name. This was an unwelcome observation. I called the agency for help but the market made it difficult to hear. There were screaming children, yelling merchants, nearby traffic and one man in a motorized wheelchair who had a car horn installed on it, which he blasted at me when I did not get out of his way fast enough. This led to an uncharitable thought on my part about banning motorized wheelchairs from the sidewalks to the roads. Just as I was put in touch with someone at the agency who could help us locate it -- I kid you not -- the gospel church across the street from us blasted into life. A dozen or so choir members praised God by singing into microphones on the street. I prayed for God to strike them dead, but as I'm not on his good side, simultaneously disbelieving in him and yet asking him to help me with my lottery tickets, my prayers were not answered. I closed my cell in surrender. ``You know where to go now.'' Stated Zornitsa. ``No.'' ``But you were on the phone for so long.'' I almost killed her then. Through some luck and a phone call from a quieter location, we eventually found the place and our agent: Michael Jackson. That wasn't his real name but, it might as well have been. He had the same too-white completion, the same hair, the same large, alien eyes and the same pointy artificial nose. I could have reached across the desk and broken it in half like a piece of chalk. He asked us the usual agent questions, but he was so odd I found I had trouble answering him. Every time he asked me something, I mumbled either towards Zornitsa or at my shoes. I kept hoping that Zornitsa would pick up some of the conversational slack, but as I had been the dominant personality that day, she didn't seem inclined to switch roles with me. I also didn't trust Michael Jackson when he informed us that three of the four flats I had called about just two days ago were unavailable. The remaining flat he said `isn't right for you two'. Since he had met us just seconds earlier I wondered, not for the first time, what snap judgements the agents made when they saw us walk in the door. Michael Jackson then showed us two flats. The first a little more than a concrete prison cell buried in the ground with a soul crushing coldness and built, as Zornitsa said, `for unskilled workers.' The second was a luxury flat in a brand new complex -- yuppie heaven. What drove me mad was this quantum difference in living styles was a mere £100 more a month. ``What do you think?'' asked Michael Jackson. ``I don't understand,'' I said, ``how such little price difference can result in such a big quality of life difference.'' Michael Jackson never directly answered this question of mine, though I had my suspicions. I think he really wanted to sell the second flat and tried to scare us into it by showing us the first. *
* *
Back in our flat in Islington, Zornitsa and I made dinner and discussed the flats we had seen. While she had been able to narrow down hundreds of possible flats to the eight we had seen, she wasn't able to go from eight to one. Fortunately, this is what I had been doing from the first flat we saw. Every time we saw a new flat, I mentally rearranged my list of where I wanted to live. The first flat we saw was unacceptable but since it was the first, it was also my #1 choice. The next flat we saw was better so it took the first place slot and bumped the first down to number two. When the list grew to four, I intentionally forgot the flat on the bottom -- a mental triage of sorts -- to dedicate the maximum number of brain cells where they were needed the most. When we discussed the flats we had seen, I had forgotten all but three of them. This somewhat frustrated Zornitsa. ``Remember the first flat we saw this morning?'' ``Nope.'' ``The one on the ground floor.'' ``Not at all. I think we should live in the brick house.'' ``What about the flat on Camberwell Road? What did you think of that one?'' ``I don't remember it.'' Zornitsa kept trying to go over the whole list while I just reiterated my top three choices: ``#1 is the brick house, #2 is the one above the store, #3 is the one with the aqua-blue interior.'' Hours later Zornitsa finally agreed on the flat which I had always considered number one. The next day I called the agent to tell her we wanted the flat. ``Very good, sir. We will need you to come in today and leave a deposit of the first week's rent.'' ``That won't be a problem.'' ``We also need you to provide a guarantor.'' This wasn't part of my phone script. I stalled for a moment before saying: ``What's a guarantor?'' ``Oh, it shouldn't be a problem. We just need someone in the UK who owns a house and who's willing to accept liability for your rent in case of a failure to pay.'' What she left unsaid was `if you two untrustworthy foreigners flee the country.' ``Oh... that might be a bit... difficult.'' I chose the word `difficult' as it sounded a lot better than `impossible'. While it may only be 5,000 generations away to Mitochondrial Eve (the African woman to whom all present day humans are related) finding a previously-unknown-house-owning relative in the UK who was also willing to accept liability for us didn't seem likely. ``We're both foreign students... but I'm an Irish Citizen as well.'' Mentioning that I'm technically an Irish citizen has become my version of a get-out-of-jail-free card. I casually bring it up at every interaction with someone of authority in the UK. ``Well, in that case, you could pay a portion of the rent in advance in place of a guarantor.'' We negotiated the terms and all was settled. The next day Zornitsa and I went back to the agency for one last look at the flat. We got off at the nearest train station -- walking past the parks and a cemetery on the way to our flat. Zornitsa said she didn't like the idea of living so close to a cemetery, but that ultimately she was OK with it as she said, and I quote: `I know what happens after you die.' This was another one of those comments of hers that I just let slide. Like her belief in astrology, I do my best to ignore what I perceive as a flaw in her otherwise practical and logical personality. When we saw the flat again we liked it even better the second time. This visit, however, we already began positioning ourselves for who would get which bedroom. We returned to the agents and, after I held my breath and hesitating for just a second, we signed our names and handed over a pile of cash for the deposit. Zornitsa and I are excited to move in next month and I can't wait to make ghost noises around the flat to scare her. |
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Copyright © 2004 Wellington Grey  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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PDF Version of Hunting Flats in the Urban Jungle |
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