“So, you have a pied-à-terre.”
I smiled dumbly at the woman and gave a half nod.
Yes, of course,” I responded. My wife and I were attending the coffee hour
at St. Luke’s in Forest Hills, New York.
We’d been describing the studio apartment we had rented to have a place
near our son and daughter-in-law’s apartment so we could visit our new
grandchild. We chatted a while longer
and then left the church to walk back to our apartment.
“What’s a pied-à-terre?” I asked my wife.
“I have no idea.
Let’s ask Google.” She posed the
question to her phone. “It’s
French. It literally means, ‘foot on the
ground.’ Usually, it refers to a small
second home in a big city.”
"So, we do have a pied-à-terre,” I said. Initially, we had hoped to find a small apartment that we could lease for those critical first few months of our grandchild’s life. After searching diligently, it became apparent that a short-term lease was not possible. So, we signed a lease for a year, thrilled that we had found an apartment only a block away from our son’s place. Our grandson was born the month after we set up the apartment.
We spent a great deal of time there over the following
months, helping with the baby’s care, preparing meals, and frankly, enjoying
the city. We learned how to get there by
train, bus and car and how to get around New York on the subway. We decided we loved having a place so close
to our grandson. And as summer turned to
winter, we began to think how nice it would be to buy a pied-à-terre so we
could continue to be part of our grandson’s life as he grew from a baby to a
toddler to a boy.
My wife began to make some inquiries about available apartments
in the area, but none of the places being offered met our needs. Either they were too expensive, too far away,
too big or too small. We liked that our
leased apartment had the kitchen in a separate room and a large
livingroom/bedroom space. But when we
inquired about buying our apartment, we were told that the owners were not
interested in selling. They owned many
of the apartments in the building and considered the rent to be their retirement
plan. I asked the Super if he knew of anyone
else who might be interested in selling.
He gave me a vague answer that, yes, there was one, but he wouldn’t
recommend it, because the upstairs neighbors were noisy.
In fact, he was screening would be applicants and was
uncertain whether I was up-to-snuff. A
few days later, when the Super realized who I was – my wife’s husband, he was
much more forthcoming. He knew a woman
who was interested in selling, but she was in no hurry to sell. She wanted to do it privately, without
involving a broker. That suited us well,
and we arranged to meet her to see the apartment and negotiate a price.
My son came by with our grandson to see the place with
us. Just before we left our apartment, my
wife decided to change into a red plaid flannel top. We took the elevator down four floors, knocked
on the door, and the owner ushered us in, wearing a top nearly identical to my
wife’s. We hit it off immediately –
having a cute baby with us didn’t hurt. After
some light conversation, the owner gave us her price. It was even better than the price my wife and
I had discussed. Before I could say a
word, my wife offered her $5,000 more than what she had asked. I bit my tongue,
knowing my wife is usually right about these sorts of things. That was borne out when the owner insisted on
having the place repainted before we moved in and allowed us to store the
contents from our leased apartment there pending the closing.
Buying a place in a co-op was more complicated than any
previous real estate transaction in which we had been involved. We had to provide several letters of
recommendation and submit to an interview with the co-op board. The process took more than two months, but in
the end, we were approved by the board and proceeded to closing. We now owned a piece of New York real estate,
or more specifically, shares in a co-op that owned the building. In any case, we had acquired the right to occupy
a studio apartment in Queens, New York.
But even before the ink had dried on the closing
papers, we discovered a leak in the bathroom ceiling. Since this is a second-floor apartment in a
building with six floors, we knew it wasn’t caused by a roof leak. Rather, the toilet in the apartment above ours
was leaking. The prior owner assured us
that she would cover the cost to fix whatever damage the leak caused to our
apartment. However, stained and peeling
paint on the bathroom ceiling and one of its walls discouraged us from using it,
especially since we knew that the leaking water was coming from a toilet. As the problem worsened, the Super removed a
cabinet from the damp wall, cut several holes in the wall and kept a fan
running to help dry it out.
Two months passed before the upstairs leak was fixed
and our bathroom had dried to the point that it could be put back together. The Super hired a contractor who fixed the
holes, repainted the wall and ceiling, re-installed the cabinet, and even
installed a medicine chest that we had bought to provide some extra storage. The cost was completely paid by the co-op. Now we could begin to enjoy spending time in
our pied-à-terre.
Except, about a week earlier, my wife had tripped and
fractured her hip. Her recovery was
slow, painful and incomplete – she would need a full hip replacement according
to her orthopedic doctor. She decided to
schedule the surgery for January so she would not be completely disabled during
the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.
But, during the time between her fall and the surgery, walking was painful
and climbing stairs was excruciating. Walking
and climbing stairs are practically a way of life in New York. Hundreds of stores and restaurants are within
a healthy walking distance, but a major hassle if you want to drive your
car. The main way to get around the city
is by subway, which nearly always involves several sets of steps to access and
more steps to get back above ground. We
made a few trips to our apartment during this time, but my wife’s condition discouraged
us from spending much time there.
My wife’s surgery took place in mid-January. Though not fully recovered, she was feeling
well enough by early March that we decided to drive to New York to spend a
couple nights in our apartment. We took
our grandson who lives near us to give him a chance to visit with his New York
cousin. We returned home on March
10. A day later, the World Health
Organization declared the novel coronavirus a global pandemic. Since then, most states in the U.S. have
imposed restrictions on their populations designed to slow the spread of this
highly contagious virus. New York City is
the epicenter of the virus in the United States.
Apartment or no, my wife and I were not about to risk
traveling to New York as conditions there deteriorated from bad to worse. Instead, we became concerned about our son
and his family continuing to stay there.
My son, a professional juggler, saw all his gigs cancelled. His wife was ordered to work from home. Since they had no compelling reason to remain
in New York, they emigrated to our house in Pennsylvania. They are now living in the basement apartment
in our home, where they are doing a 14-day quarantine.
So, beyond a toilet leak, a bad hip and a coronavirus
pandemic, my wife and I have spent precious little time in our pied-à-terre in
New York. We’ve barely had a chance to
put our “foot on the ground” there.
We’re doing our best now to practice social distancing,
and we’re hunkering down in our home to protect ourselves from contracting the
virus. It may be months before it’s safe
to return to New York, but return we will.
And when we can return, we’ll have a pied-à-terre waiting for us.
