Our Pied-à-Terre

“So, you have a pied-à-terre.”

I smiled dumbly at the woman and gave a half nod.

“A pied-à-terre,” she repeated.

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.