Mr. Singal Goes To Washington

I just returned from a trip to Washington, DC, where I spent a few days (courtesy of Mr. Feinberg and his couch, Sally) looking for housing. For those of you not in the know, or who don't regularly read celebrity gossip columns, I am starting an internship with a political magazine in September. Good times. I figured, as had been the case with New York City, that I would drive down to DC, search for a day or two, and find a place. Easy as pie. (I fucking hate that expression.)

Boy, was I wrong.

We all know that finding a place in New York is hard. Apartment hunting in DC, however, is like trying to ride a unicycle across a crocodile's back while juggling -- no matter how good you are at it, a thousand things can go wrong. If you don't respond to a Craigs List ad within an hour of its going up, you may as well not bother. As a result, much of my time was spent in Feinberg's apartment, refreshing the site every few hours, sending promising posters e-mails absolutely dripping with desperation, and waiting for them to call me.

The original plan was to live with Ben Kaufman, a friend from Newton North, and one of his friends from Skidmore. Kaufman had called me excitedly last Tuesday.

"Dude, we found a place," he told me. It was a three bedroom basement apartment in Columbia Heights, one of the newly hip neighborhoods in which to live, and ten seconds from a metro station. Kaufman explained that the guy who was renting it out was super nice and said that tons of people wanted it but that Kaufman seemed so trustworthy that he'd knock the price down, just for us! It was originally $2400, but he said he'd rent it for $2250. Just because Kaufman seemed reliable! What a guy! What a deal! Kaufman wanted me to sign all the paperwork immediately, but I was a bit skeptical. For one thing, it didn't have a living room. If you're paying $750 for a place, shouldn't there be a living room? And the basement thing was questionable too -- the term "basement apartment" can mean many things, and I didn't feel comfortable taking one sight unseen.

In other words, it was road trip time. I hopped in my car the next day and made the eight-hour journey to DC, getting snagged as always on the Cross Bronx and arriving in Columbia Heights shortly after 5:30, the time at which I'd agreed to meet Jessie, the woman who would show me the place. Two other kids were waiting, too, and they told me that they'd also been offered the place for $2250. That was odd, I thought -- weren't we getting that special, amazing price because Kaufman seemed so trustworthy? Hmmmm...

Jessie arrived and led us down a set of dungeonlike stairs.

It was a basement -- I had to give it that. The problem was, it didn't really seem like an apartment. One of the bedrooms was all right -- it got plenty of light since it opened into the building's small backyard. The other "bedroom" wasn't so hot -- two small, ground-level windows, only one of which would receive any light. The third "bedroom" was windowless. And Kaufman had claimed that the kitchen could serve as a common room as well if we put a couch there. He was wrong.

So the total rundown: $750 a person for no living room in a basement apartment with only one room that could rightly be considered a bedroom. The immediate neighborhood was nice, yes, but the apartment was horrible. Next, please. It was a poor, poor omen.

I'm already well on my way to writing one of those self-absorbed, boring, diarylike posts I always complain about. But I will share one other event from my time in DC. (I'm not sharing the middle-aged gay pool hall owner from whom I almost rented a crappy room for a month, nor the mentally unstable forty- or fiftysomething Northeasterner who tried to sell me an efficiency in a big, bizarre, crappy house near Chinatown. As he showed me the room, gesturing vaguely, he was on the phone, trying to appease his girlfriend, who was mad that he wasn't returning her calls.)

I saw a Craigs List post for a room in an excellent part of Adams Morgan. It was only a September to October rental, but the price was quite reasonable. So I showed up right when the open house began, and another girl was there too. I will henceforth refer to her as Bitchy New Yorker (BNY). She was small and chirpy and probably harmless, but something about her immediately troubled me.

Karen, the owner of the house, showed us the place. It was beautiful, and the room was nice. Karen ran out of things to show us, and a strange tension descended on our threesome.

BNY: "So, in terms of renting the room, what was your timeframe?"

Karen: "Immediate."

It was just BNY and I. No other candidates.

BNY: "I'll be up front: I brought my checkbook with me. I have to take a train back to New York later today and will write you a check right now."

Me [incredulous that BNY seemed impressed with herself for taking such an obvious measure]: "Well, yeah. Finding a place is tough. I brought my checkbook too. And I have to drive back to Boston later tonight."

BNY: "I'm working for [probably-fake environmental nonprofit]; their office is two blocks away."

Karen: "I dunno Jesse -- she's making a pretty strong case."

As Karen said this she shot me a strange look, like she expected me to don a top hat, produce a cane, and perform a musical number explaining why I, and not BNY, should get the apartment. ("Ooooohhhhhhhhh to get my career on the proper track / I'd like to live east of the Po-to-mac...") But what was I supposed to do? BNY had stolen all my leverage. And while I couldn't blame her for playing the checkbook card so early, something about the way in which she did so really pissed me off: She acted like I wasn't there, like no one in the world could have come up with the brilliany idea of bringing a checkbook to a cheapish, available apartment in a desirable area.

So Karen gave it to BNY then and there. I can't wait until the first time I see BNY at a bar on 18th Street. I'm totally going to tell one of the bouncers she sexually harrassed me. Then we'll see who's laughing (probably the bouncer).

So far, this post has been a textbook example of why I usually don't blog: I have brought nothing to the table, have focused on a couple of small, unimportant anectodes, and have said little of import. I did eventually find an overpriced place, but it's in a good area. I should probably stop writing now.

But here are my first impressions on the District, and why I will eventually be banned from it:

DC is filled with lobbyists, ambitious young staffers, and employees of NGOs. In other words, it contains many people who, for the sake of networking and ladder-climbing, are probably concerned with concepts that are alien to me, concepts such as:

-personal grooming
-proper modes of dress for going out
-smiling maniacally/acting cheerful
-singing the same brain-liquefying Bon Jovi song every Friday during Happy Hour

I am going to fit right in.