My stay at The Pod Hotel was pretty good. While the hostel-style, bunk-bed-with-a-shared-bathroom option was enticing, I instead chose to stay in a room with a double bed and private bath. I'd guess the entire room was about 100 square feet, and they managed to cram all the amenities you'd expect from a big boy hotel into the space - bed, AC, shower (they had a rainwater shower head, so the water shot down from above - this is the coolest thing ever), toilet, sink and TV - there's just less dead space between it all.
I did have one existential moment when the place reminded me of a prison cell, but then I remembered I had an LCD TV and WiFi. I'd definitely stay there again, but one week was definitely long enough to get The Pod experience.
Friday, May 30, 2008
From The Pod to the Pad
After a bit of drama getting a temporary place lined up (fun tip I only stumbled upon: most brokers and property owners only think 30 days out, so the rental market realllllly dries up in the last week of the month), I'm in my permanent temporary home, conveniently located near, well, everything.
I need to walk about 10 feet to run into 100 restaurants, but I'm far enough away from the avenue to not be bothered by the noise. What's really cool is I have a balcony about big enough for a book and me, which overlooks a courtyard area inside the apartment building. They also have laundry facilities onsite, and there's a couple grocery places nearby. I'm going to miss this place.
One thing I've discovered here is how alive cash is. I can nearly count on one hand the number of times I had actual paper money in my wallet where I used to live; everywhere took plastic. But here, I feel like I'm the only person that doesn't have a wad o' ones at any given time. The businesses don't make it easy, either; Most everywhere takes credit, but there's a 50-50 chance they'll demand a $10 (or more) minimum. I'm one of those people that puts everything on a credit card and pays it off at the end of the month, so I'm still getting over the fact my brilliant finance management plan may not survive the city. Moral of the story: Cash is king.
I need to walk about 10 feet to run into 100 restaurants, but I'm far enough away from the avenue to not be bothered by the noise. What's really cool is I have a balcony about big enough for a book and me, which overlooks a courtyard area inside the apartment building. They also have laundry facilities onsite, and there's a couple grocery places nearby. I'm going to miss this place.
One thing I've discovered here is how alive cash is. I can nearly count on one hand the number of times I had actual paper money in my wallet where I used to live; everywhere took plastic. But here, I feel like I'm the only person that doesn't have a wad o' ones at any given time. The businesses don't make it easy, either; Most everywhere takes credit, but there's a 50-50 chance they'll demand a $10 (or more) minimum. I'm one of those people that puts everything on a credit card and pays it off at the end of the month, so I'm still getting over the fact my brilliant finance management plan may not survive the city. Moral of the story: Cash is king.
GypsyMaps Rox My Sox
GypsyMaps is a Google Maps mash-up that overlays the MTA subway and bus maps over the city. What's really cool is if you ask for directions, it'll tell you which lines to take, figure out how far you have to walk and even how long your commute will be. And it's pretty accurate, too. It says my old commute was about 20 minutes, door to door, which was about right.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I'm the Sherpa of Penn Station
Every time I travel hungover, I tell myself I'll never drink again. Sunday was no different. I planned on leaving my going away party on Saturday evening by midnight, but that went straight to hell when the host noticed I wasn't doing any shots and went to lengths to rectify that. By the end of my night, closer to 2:00 than 12:00, I had puked in three different zip codes and ended up spending even more throwing up into a trash can near by bed.
My plane was scheduled to leave at 10:00, which meant I needed to be up at 8:00, and when my alarm went off I was still hammered. Luckily I packed the day before, so I grabbed a soda and headed out the door with my parents and girlfriend.
The plane ride up wasn't too bad - I sipped club soda and slept off the rest of my drunk, grateful for the ibuprofen my girlfriend packed me when I wasn't looking. I landed in JFK on time and began the long journey into Manhattan.
This may be how your move to New York starts. If you're smart, you'll have drank more responsibly than I, and you'll have opted not to lug 70 pounds of luggage without wheels. But JFK is where most major American airlines go through. If you've never been, JFK is a great airport because each terminal is independent from the others, and there's a train service, named TRAIN, that runs between each of them and ends up either at the Jamaica station for the Long Island Rail Road, or the Howard Beach subway station. I planned on taking the LIRR into Penn Station to get to Manhattan, because the Howard Beach subway option takes about three times as long to get to the same place.
The problem is the TRAIN train that goes to Jamaica doesn't go to Howard Beach, and in my less than effervescent state I stumbled onto the Howard Beach TRAIN. I realized something was wrong when I was five miles out of JFK, so I had to get off at the stop before Howard Beach, turn around, and find a mini-station where both TRAIN trains ran.
I eventually made it to Jamaica station, paid my $5 to get through the turnstiles (the TRAIN costs $5 to ride - they just charge you at the end rather than the beginning), helped some Indian dude buy LIRR tickets, and cursed myself for the first time for bringing so much goddamn luggage onto a train. I had a military-style duffle bag, a travel bag, and a huge laptop bag slung over me, and the turnstiles that bar your entry to the station weren't really designed for someone carrying that much. So I had to manipulate myself like I was walking through a jungle gym with an extra 100 pounds to deal with.
Getting onto the LIRR train wasn't much better, but at least the cars are designed to accommodate people with luggage. I could sling my duffle bag up on a luggage rack and only have to deal with my laptop and travel bag for the 30-minute ride. This was the last part of my day I'd consider pleasant.
Once I got into Penn, I had to walk over to another train, which was about a quarter mile underground from where the LIRR stopped. From there I'd change to the shuttle at 42nd street to get over to Grand Central, and then jump on the 6 train to get to my hotel. This was hellish. Absolutely hellish.
The New York subway system is my second favorite mass transit system in the States. (Washington DC's gets the edge, just because they have LED signs in the stations to announce delays.) It's fast, clean, and cheap. But they're in no way designed for a dipshit with his life on his back, trying to squeeze through rapidly closing doors and not pin someone against a wall when he forgets which bag is slung over which shoulder. The stairs are just the perfect height to make each step a mini-squat exercise. And since the different trains' tracks tend to be at least a hundred yards and couple stairways away from each other, I probably walked a mile underground, just to change trains.
The underground stations are also hot. It was 70 here today, and the stations were probably all in the 90s. I had a light wool jacket on, in addition to shlepping all my crap around. By the time I was waiting for the 6 train, I was dripping with hangover sweat.
Moral of the story: Once you're in Manhattan, take a cab if you've got a lot of stuff.
However, now that I'm here, I'm just a ball of excitement. I'm still nursing the hangover, but I've already made some plans for tomorrow and eaten Italian food. I've even gotten a dose of multiculturalism. In the restaurant, the people eating to my right were British, and to my left were two beautiful French women.
This is awesome.
My plane was scheduled to leave at 10:00, which meant I needed to be up at 8:00, and when my alarm went off I was still hammered. Luckily I packed the day before, so I grabbed a soda and headed out the door with my parents and girlfriend.
The plane ride up wasn't too bad - I sipped club soda and slept off the rest of my drunk, grateful for the ibuprofen my girlfriend packed me when I wasn't looking. I landed in JFK on time and began the long journey into Manhattan.
This may be how your move to New York starts. If you're smart, you'll have drank more responsibly than I, and you'll have opted not to lug 70 pounds of luggage without wheels. But JFK is where most major American airlines go through. If you've never been, JFK is a great airport because each terminal is independent from the others, and there's a train service, named TRAIN, that runs between each of them and ends up either at the Jamaica station for the Long Island Rail Road, or the Howard Beach subway station. I planned on taking the LIRR into Penn Station to get to Manhattan, because the Howard Beach subway option takes about three times as long to get to the same place.
The problem is the TRAIN train that goes to Jamaica doesn't go to Howard Beach, and in my less than effervescent state I stumbled onto the Howard Beach TRAIN. I realized something was wrong when I was five miles out of JFK, so I had to get off at the stop before Howard Beach, turn around, and find a mini-station where both TRAIN trains ran.
I eventually made it to Jamaica station, paid my $5 to get through the turnstiles (the TRAIN costs $5 to ride - they just charge you at the end rather than the beginning), helped some Indian dude buy LIRR tickets, and cursed myself for the first time for bringing so much goddamn luggage onto a train. I had a military-style duffle bag, a travel bag, and a huge laptop bag slung over me, and the turnstiles that bar your entry to the station weren't really designed for someone carrying that much. So I had to manipulate myself like I was walking through a jungle gym with an extra 100 pounds to deal with.
Getting onto the LIRR train wasn't much better, but at least the cars are designed to accommodate people with luggage. I could sling my duffle bag up on a luggage rack and only have to deal with my laptop and travel bag for the 30-minute ride. This was the last part of my day I'd consider pleasant.
Once I got into Penn, I had to walk over to another train, which was about a quarter mile underground from where the LIRR stopped. From there I'd change to the shuttle at 42nd street to get over to Grand Central, and then jump on the 6 train to get to my hotel. This was hellish. Absolutely hellish.
The New York subway system is my second favorite mass transit system in the States. (Washington DC's gets the edge, just because they have LED signs in the stations to announce delays.) It's fast, clean, and cheap. But they're in no way designed for a dipshit with his life on his back, trying to squeeze through rapidly closing doors and not pin someone against a wall when he forgets which bag is slung over which shoulder. The stairs are just the perfect height to make each step a mini-squat exercise. And since the different trains' tracks tend to be at least a hundred yards and couple stairways away from each other, I probably walked a mile underground, just to change trains.
The underground stations are also hot. It was 70 here today, and the stations were probably all in the 90s. I had a light wool jacket on, in addition to shlepping all my crap around. By the time I was waiting for the 6 train, I was dripping with hangover sweat.
Moral of the story: Once you're in Manhattan, take a cab if you've got a lot of stuff.
However, now that I'm here, I'm just a ball of excitement. I'm still nursing the hangover, but I've already made some plans for tomorrow and eaten Italian food. I've even gotten a dose of multiculturalism. In the restaurant, the people eating to my right were British, and to my left were two beautiful French women.
This is awesome.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The Start of Something
Hi there. I'm bsguru. I make blogs, commit to them for a short amount of time, and then forget about them. This time around, I'm turning that weakness into a strength. I'm moving to New York City in a couple days, and since I haven't been able to find a guide or anything online, I've decided to chronicle my move, my culture shock, and most importantly (I think), my apartment hunt in the hopes that someone else will find it useful when he moves to the city. I figure this blog will end either when I find an apartment and get moved in or once I begin referring to myself as a New Yorker. If it keeps going after that, it probably means I'm making money off Google Ads and am milking you, dear Reader, for all you're worth.
A little about me: I'm a newly mid-20s white male who's never lived north of 40ยบ latitude. I recently accepted a job offer from a startup based in midtown for substantially more money than I'm comfortable admitting to. (It's one bedroom in Manhattan money - two if I still didn't have a car payment.) I'm going to be editor in chief of a soon-to-be-wildly-popular website. I'm moving to New York at the end of this month.
I lucked out, because my employer is people-centric and has generously rented me a place in the city for a month, long enough for me to find a place of my own and begin paying for it. They claim it's nearly impossible to find a place in the city without being on the ground. I've been looking a bit at craigslist in my spare time, and I can confirm this. There's more neighborhoods - some of them have more than one name - than you can fucking count, and Google Maps hasn't been good enough to incorporate demographics and crime statistics into its bag of tricks.
What's more, all the neighborhoods sound the same: Brooklyn Heights, Crown Heights, Washington Heights, Stuyvesant Heights. Realtors on craigslist also like expanding the traditional borders of nicer neighborhoods that border less affluent ones. And to make matters even more confusing, the places that have historically been warzones, like Harlem, are now full of graduate students. All I've put together so far is Manhattan is really, really expensive.
Anyway, my plane leaves this Sunday, 10 hours after my goodbye party ends. It's a short trip up there, but the trip from JFK into Penn Station will be a fun story to share with you.
A little about me: I'm a newly mid-20s white male who's never lived north of 40ยบ latitude. I recently accepted a job offer from a startup based in midtown for substantially more money than I'm comfortable admitting to. (It's one bedroom in Manhattan money - two if I still didn't have a car payment.) I'm going to be editor in chief of a soon-to-be-wildly-popular website. I'm moving to New York at the end of this month.
I lucked out, because my employer is people-centric and has generously rented me a place in the city for a month, long enough for me to find a place of my own and begin paying for it. They claim it's nearly impossible to find a place in the city without being on the ground. I've been looking a bit at craigslist in my spare time, and I can confirm this. There's more neighborhoods - some of them have more than one name - than you can fucking count, and Google Maps hasn't been good enough to incorporate demographics and crime statistics into its bag of tricks.
What's more, all the neighborhoods sound the same: Brooklyn Heights, Crown Heights, Washington Heights, Stuyvesant Heights. Realtors on craigslist also like expanding the traditional borders of nicer neighborhoods that border less affluent ones. And to make matters even more confusing, the places that have historically been warzones, like Harlem, are now full of graduate students. All I've put together so far is Manhattan is really, really expensive.
Anyway, my plane leaves this Sunday, 10 hours after my goodbye party ends. It's a short trip up there, but the trip from JFK into Penn Station will be a fun story to share with you.
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