I am lucky to be able to chase the seasons through the year. I like to think of it as temperature control, and though I have named it, I am not very good at it. Having timed my travels so that I would miss the worst of the American winter whilst enjoying Lahore in a non-lethal heat, I arrived back in New York expecting a floral spring. I was very wrong. My week in NY has been snowy, cold and frigid, apparently for the first time this year. Still, I’m grateful because I have an excuse to wear my winter wardrobe that was sadly underutilized in Lahore, and also because no matter how bad the winter is here, it can always be worse (looking at you London, looking at you with frosty disdain).
Obviously I have been narcoleptic since my landing because of jetlag. The fun part of jetlag coming Westward is it makes one sleep and rise early, providing a non-medicated illusion of productivity. Most days simply waking up at seven is reason enough for me to take the whole day off, which is what I have been doing. You can call that self-indulgent (Oprah calls it “me time”). But in truth it’s because I have to move apartments soon and I need all the rest I can get.
You’ll recall the last time I tried to move apartments I was the victim of what can only be described as a Ponzi scheme. I thought I had secured a monumental find in a great neighbourhood, only to learn three minutes after turning the key to my new place that there was a beer bar below it, which is more offensive to me than a regular bar because it smells like pee and only ever plays bass-heavy rap music. The music was the worst. Although Hillary the Bar Wench and I have gone through our ups and downs - me sending her threatening emails and texts, her saying she will file a restraining order, me leaving anonymous notes handwritten in red ink to mess with her head, her crying as she (hopefully) examines what life choices led her to open a beer bar with non-standardised indoor speakers - I think I have lost this battle. Even when there is no sound coming from below, I can hear the deep rumbling of a bass guitar in my head. I’ll hear it on planes, in hotels and in stores. On three occasions I woke up from dreams in which I had woken up from hearing the bass. This is where psychosomatic problems begin, and I think it’s time to cut my losses.
This time I decided Choice, that oversold American virtue, was the enemy. I picked out three apartments online that were in my budget and in a desirable area. Last Saturday I did a round of all three, on Sunday I thought about it and by Monday I had put in an application. Do not mistake my efficiency for haste. I google the hell out of the building I want to live in. The funny thing is I wanted this apartment last year but applied for it too late so I’m thinking #destiny. I know there are 18 noise violations, 2 outstanding warrants, and no child molesters within 1 block of my flat. I also know that the average number of rodents you’ll see outside the front door is 18 (I used a pretty thorough background-check website), which if I am honest is decent for New York.
Most importantly the apartment has level floors, and a window in every room plus a view of a church outside, so… win! If you think any of these are to be taken for granted I wouldn’t wish apartment hunting in this city upon you. It’s like The Hunger Games of real estate - it’s lethal and you’re as likely to be killed by a stray bacteria or lead poisoning as by a murderer who leases apartment 4 B. I haven’t found out if I got it but I am hopeful. My estate agent was Indian and maybe that helps me edge out other applicants.
Of course I was careful to avoid talking politics, given how Narendra Modi has just won India’s biggest state, and I am not sure how many people there know this isn’t a great thing. Mr. Varma and I instead discussed daal recipes and the holi holiday. (Love the sound of that: “holi holi holi-day!”) He was fascinated to know I had been in India for holi.
I know it looks good in sanitised Amitabh Bachchan Bollywood movies, but the festival is slightly sinister in real life.
The last time I was India I was flying out on the evening of holi, and was actually quite excited about flinging some multi-coloured powder at a laughing pedestrian as we both became backup dancers for Ashwariya Rai as she ran down the pavement holding a white dupatta like a sail above her head. The reality is more treacherous: groups of people you don’t know become suddenly touchy-feely, and think it’s totally OK no matter what colour clothes you’re wearing to smear what one can only pray are non-corrosive chemical compounds onto your skin. Being in a controlled holi party is fun; being on the streets is like a Technicolor version of Straight Outta Compton.
Obviously I told Mr. Varma none of this. In the end he invited me to his house in Queens where his wife is hosting a small holi party, and though the gesture is super sweet, I’m going to wait until after I find out about my application to reveal whether I’m angry enough to take a train to Queens, ring the doorbell and throw ultramarine blue powder straight into his wife’s stinging eyes. Until then, Behold the Power of Positive Thinking!
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
Obviously I have been narcoleptic since my landing because of jetlag. The fun part of jetlag coming Westward is it makes one sleep and rise early, providing a non-medicated illusion of productivity. Most days simply waking up at seven is reason enough for me to take the whole day off, which is what I have been doing. You can call that self-indulgent (Oprah calls it “me time”). But in truth it’s because I have to move apartments soon and I need all the rest I can get.
You’ll recall the last time I tried to move apartments I was the victim of what can only be described as a Ponzi scheme. I thought I had secured a monumental find in a great neighbourhood, only to learn three minutes after turning the key to my new place that there was a beer bar below it, which is more offensive to me than a regular bar because it smells like pee and only ever plays bass-heavy rap music. The music was the worst. Although Hillary the Bar Wench and I have gone through our ups and downs - me sending her threatening emails and texts, her saying she will file a restraining order, me leaving anonymous notes handwritten in red ink to mess with her head, her crying as she (hopefully) examines what life choices led her to open a beer bar with non-standardised indoor speakers - I think I have lost this battle. Even when there is no sound coming from below, I can hear the deep rumbling of a bass guitar in my head. I’ll hear it on planes, in hotels and in stores. On three occasions I woke up from dreams in which I had woken up from hearing the bass. This is where psychosomatic problems begin, and I think it’s time to cut my losses.
People become suddenly touchy-feely, and think it's totally OK to smear chemical compounds onto your skin
This time I decided Choice, that oversold American virtue, was the enemy. I picked out three apartments online that were in my budget and in a desirable area. Last Saturday I did a round of all three, on Sunday I thought about it and by Monday I had put in an application. Do not mistake my efficiency for haste. I google the hell out of the building I want to live in. The funny thing is I wanted this apartment last year but applied for it too late so I’m thinking #destiny. I know there are 18 noise violations, 2 outstanding warrants, and no child molesters within 1 block of my flat. I also know that the average number of rodents you’ll see outside the front door is 18 (I used a pretty thorough background-check website), which if I am honest is decent for New York.
Most importantly the apartment has level floors, and a window in every room plus a view of a church outside, so… win! If you think any of these are to be taken for granted I wouldn’t wish apartment hunting in this city upon you. It’s like The Hunger Games of real estate - it’s lethal and you’re as likely to be killed by a stray bacteria or lead poisoning as by a murderer who leases apartment 4 B. I haven’t found out if I got it but I am hopeful. My estate agent was Indian and maybe that helps me edge out other applicants.
Of course I was careful to avoid talking politics, given how Narendra Modi has just won India’s biggest state, and I am not sure how many people there know this isn’t a great thing. Mr. Varma and I instead discussed daal recipes and the holi holiday. (Love the sound of that: “holi holi holi-day!”) He was fascinated to know I had been in India for holi.
I know it looks good in sanitised Amitabh Bachchan Bollywood movies, but the festival is slightly sinister in real life.
The last time I was India I was flying out on the evening of holi, and was actually quite excited about flinging some multi-coloured powder at a laughing pedestrian as we both became backup dancers for Ashwariya Rai as she ran down the pavement holding a white dupatta like a sail above her head. The reality is more treacherous: groups of people you don’t know become suddenly touchy-feely, and think it’s totally OK no matter what colour clothes you’re wearing to smear what one can only pray are non-corrosive chemical compounds onto your skin. Being in a controlled holi party is fun; being on the streets is like a Technicolor version of Straight Outta Compton.
Obviously I told Mr. Varma none of this. In the end he invited me to his house in Queens where his wife is hosting a small holi party, and though the gesture is super sweet, I’m going to wait until after I find out about my application to reveal whether I’m angry enough to take a train to Queens, ring the doorbell and throw ultramarine blue powder straight into his wife’s stinging eyes. Until then, Behold the Power of Positive Thinking!
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com