A Lesson in Compromise

If you’ve ever lived in Manhattan then you know that apartment-hunting rarely takes place without some form of compromise. If it’s spacious and affordable, it’s probably in Washington Heights. If it’s in the West Village and within your price range, then it’s probably so small you can sit on the toilet and fry an egg at the same time.

My first place in Manhattan was a windowless, basement apartment directly across the street from one of the borough’s few remaining housing projects. Sure, in a neighborhood like this it’s in your best interest to move with a degree of briskness from the subway stop to your front door, but this arrangement afforded a person with my level of physical inactivity more exercise than I would have ever gotten out of my New York Sports Clubs membership.

With no natural light, it was impossible to determine if I’d woken up in the middle of the night or halfway through the next day. Ideal for any alcohol enthusiast, it was perpetually nighttime within the confines of the basement, and thus acceptable to hit the juice at any hour. It was not the most uplifting of digs, but spacious by New York standards and just the kind of place you’d like to find yourself should a nuclear situation arise!

So this summer when we found our three-bedroom Gramercy Park ‘recession special’, with its high ceilings and pre-War charm, we assumed the six-floor walk-up to be our big compromise. Eighty steps up is a pain in the ass, but it won’t kill you. The broker joked about how fit we would all become living here, but what it really did was coach us to plan ahead: buying your cigarettes in cartons and your wine in jugs is not indulgent when the consequence of running dry threatens such an exertion of energy.

We moved in early August, but it was just a few weeks ago that I discovered where the real compromise lies. What this grainy iPhone photo captures is our Building Safety Information card. The word ‘safety’ really should be omitted all together, seeing as the document reads like a list of what’s going to fail us in the event that shit really does go down:

Year of Construction: 1920

Type of Construction: Combustible

Sprinkler System: NO

Fire Alarm: NO

Public Address System: NO

If you happen to walk by and see our building ablaze, don't bother calling my cell phone. By the time we get wind of it, we’ll be trapped up here, scampering wildly across our polished cherry floors toward a window, or perhaps hunkered down in our kitchen (it has a dishwasher!) awaiting rescue.*

*Mom, if you read this, please don't panic and call me. There’s a fire escape off of Marni’s bedroom, though the structural soundness of it remains questionable.