Flats of fancy

As I've previously mentioned, renting an apartment -- sorry, "letting a flat" -- is completely different in the UK. Instead of landlords advertising in the classifieds, flats are registered with letting agents (similar to real estate agents, in that they're one step above used car salesmen) who advertise primarily via index cards pasted to their shop window.

If you're a typical renter, who knows where he wants to live, can commit for at least a year, and is willing to pay US $4,500 per month, this works out reasonably well--you call an agent and he does all the legwork for you. But if you're only willing to commit for 3 months, don't know the area, and are only willing to spend US $2,000/month -- ie, me -- then you're pretty much screwed. Agents won't talk to you, and there are no classifieds to check, and I wasn't about to go around checking every agent's shop window.

In early September, I stumbled upon the local version of craigslist -- called gumtree -- which did have some "short let" listings, though that was open to interpretation. (Many had a 6 month minimum, although one advertised rooms by the hour.) The pickings were slim, but I found a guy who was working abroad for three months and looking to rent his flat while he was away. In the US, that's called "housesitting," and you get paid to live in someone's home. Here, you pay them, but he only wanted US $2,000/month so I thought I was in business.

And it was a nice flat -- on the ground floor, with one bedroom, a small living room but big kitchen, and a patio in back. The only drawback was that he wasn't leaving until the end of September, and I didn't want to wait that long.

Fast forward to October, and I've looked at a dozen more places, talked to at least 50 owners or agents, travelled the length and breadth of London, spent a small fortune on phone calls and tube rides, and still haven't found anything as nice as the first place. I came close in Canary Wharf, which was tiny but was on the water and had floor-to-ceiling windows. I would have taken it except it was so far from Jess (and everything else) that I knew she'd never visit.

In fact, it was that realization -- plus the horrific studios I was seeing in central London -- that made me even consider Brentford, which was equally far from central London but in the opposite direction, close to where Jessica works. A woman was going to Africa for three months, and so was renting out her beautiful one bedroom flat overlooking water on both sides. I loved it immediately, but was concerned about how far it was from the city. (It's only 5 miles from where I'm currently staying, but remember that the average speed here is 5mph.)

After banging my head against the computer for about two hours, however, I discovered that with a monthly "season ticket" I could take the train for the same price as the tube, and it would only take 12 minutes longer! In fact, even though I'm further away, it takes the same amount of time to get to Jessica's house. (I'm still not really sure how that works.) So I took it. Now I just have to prove I can afford it, and I can move in 12 days.

Here is a map of London with placemarkers for every place I've considered. Light blue indicates where I'm currently staying (south), and where Jessica lives (north). Green are the two places I liked -- Brentford (west) and Canary Wharf (east). Note the big "hole" in the center -- those places go for £500-£800 per week, and my budget was £250.

The ones in dark blue I never even looked at -- they wanted 6 months minimum, or jacked up the price by 50% for a "short let," or in many cases they were already taken by the time I responded. (I read September was the worst time to be apartment hunting because 100,000 kids were flooding into London for college, all looking for apartments.)

In red are places I looked at that I wouldn't let a dog stay at. One place was so disgusting, I refused to even look at any other flats in that entire borough. Another place reeked of cigarette smoke, primarily because the owner was sitting on the sofa smoking! Most of the places didn't even have enough space to turn around, and almost none of them had an oven, never mind a washing machine. One had a shower between the bed and the kitchen, and the toilet was down the hall! (Funny how they forgot to mention that in the ad.) Almost all of them had a view of a brick wall, or a busy high street, or just didn't have any windows at all. (One was literally a hallway, with two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.) In other words, it was the most depressing bunch of places you've ever seen, and they cost as much as my 1200 square-foot loft in downtown LA!

The ones in purple were just scams. (And no, I didn't wire anybody any money.)

Yellow were places I was interested in, but didn't get a chance to look at, usually because the agent didn't return my call despite me leaving messages every day for the last three days. I had appointments with three places today, but decided to cancel them and take Brentford because they were too expensive, too inconvenient, or -- at Holly Lodge Estate -- too "soulless," as Jess described it. The buildings were lovely, the streets were wide, there was plenty of green, it was just a few minutes walk to Hampstead Heath on one side and the tube on the other, and it was only 2 miles from Jessica's -- in other words, ideal -- but it had such a "Stepford Wives" vibe, with absolute conformity, that I knew I couldn't stay there. (Interesting side-note, Wikipedia reports it was built in the 1920s for single women only.)

Anyone who remembers my dilemma in Los Angeles -- the nice, safe apartment vs. the raw, funky loft -- may see similar overtones here, but that's not the case. The flat in Brentford is lovely--who knew I had the exact same decorating taste as a British woman in her 50's? There is nothing raw or funky about the place: the ceiling is finished, the floors are wood, not cement, and the kitchen is not in the middle of the living room. And best of all, it comes fully furnished, and is filled with plants. There is a large private garden nearby, and Kew Gardens is just across the Thames. I think it will be a little awkward staying in somebody else's place -- since I obviously can't personalize it very much -- but I suspect that come January, when she returns from Africa, I will be very sorry to leave.

Heck, I'm sorry to be leaving the hotel I'm at. I know that sounds crazy, but this is a small, family-run place, and I've gotten to know the owners (and the four chambermaids they've gone through) quite well. They've given me a free hand, trusted me completely, and even asked me to man the phones occasionally. They've fed me, helped me, and are even trying to teach me Italian. (Imparo lentamente.) They have been my surrogate family, and good friends, and I will miss having them around. (I will also miss them making breakfast and cleaning up after me.) Ma la vita continua...

Oh, more British-isms:

• torch = flashlight
• jumper = sweater
• till = cash register
• way out = exit
• full stop = period
• hash = pound sign
• hob = stove
• trousers = pants
• cuffs = shirt cuffs
• turn-ups = pant cuffs
• mange-tout = sugar snap peas
• dustman = garbage collector (or "sanitation engineer")
• rocket lettuce = arugula
• basil = basil (yeah, they're spelled the same but pronounced completely differently)