Everything happens for a reason.. Long Beach is that reason

Every day had been a struggle since leaving our apartment the day before the storm on August 26th. What we thought was going to be a weekend vaca in the city had turned into 8-days (so far!)  of endless commuting, sleepless nights, and room service. The last part hadn't been so bad...

Now approaching the last weekend of the summer we never had, while the city was ready to enjoy a last hooray in The Hamptons and rooftop BBQ's, we were now having to leave the hotel due to the overflow for the upcoming holiday. We packed up again and headed to Central Jersey to stay with Trav's parents. It was a welcomed break to hear the sound of the pond fountain and not the sounds of the busy streets. We were finally able to walk the dog without dodging people. Or let's be honest, in Bob's case, people dodged him, as he barelled down streets as wide as him like a bowling ball. Finally, a home. We brought in the change of pace with a nice dinner with his parents at Barts in Matawan.

We didn't know what the next day would bring as every day started with the alarm before 5 a.m, and both of us commuting three hours (one-way!) in bumper-to-bumper traffic back to what used to be our normal routine. Our days were busier then ever as we both just tried to maintain our daily duties at work. Trav's cousin Kyle helped us by walking Bob midday, or that piece just wouldn't have fit into what had become a very meticulous puzzle. We were getting back to Central Jersey after 9pm every night, not being able to even decide on cheese or no cheese on our fast-food burger for dinner. We collapsed into bed, sleeping harder then we ever have, before doing it all over again. All while our stuff sat unpacked in an apartment, no closer to finding somewhere else to go.

I wasn't handling anything very well and subconsciously must have been seeking a target to take the form of Irene so I could unleash my subdued fury. The bubbling pot boiled over one rainy & traffic-ridden morning when a woman with a shaved head, dressed in what I could only guess was a community-service jump suit, wouldn't let us merge. It was road-rage at it's fullest, when at high speeds, I was trying to climb out my window & into hers just so I could attempt to claw her eyes out. Words came out that I'd never even heard before. Some mine, some hers. And once it was over, ended by Trav trying to roll me up in the automatic windows before speeding away, it was obvious that my death wish by my supposed target was a humbling & humiliating experience. I wasn't handling this well at all and needed to get a grip or else someone was going to get a grip on me.

I needed help and reached out. I called everyone for guidance. The one thing I had learned having lived a couple of years in Hoboken was that I never wanted to go back. That was a start. We followed up with friends on both coasts to find an open door. While some doors closed, others opened, as we seemed to be guided by ever-present destiny. The suggestion to see Long Beach, New York came from Kara, the wife of Trav's boss and the suggestion to try Greenwhich Connecticut came from a chance meeting of a couple cool strangers at Outstanding In The Field, the Marcus Samuelson event. We knew nothing about either place and were frankly too exhausted to think for ourselves, so we made a plan to at least check them out. We decided to start with "Long Beach".

It was Saturday of Labor Day weekend and like every other morning, we woke up at 5 a.m. to figure out what we should be doing to make the day productive. Equipped with little more then car keys & a Tom-Tom, we headed to this so-called Long Beach. 

As we drove, I mean crawled, through Manhattan, and then through Brooklyn, while missing our turn and getting further delayed, we found ourselves giving each other the silent treatment for no reason.  We were numb.

And then it happened... After paying the $2 toll- we embarked on the bridge that led to Long Beach island.  I felt something I hadn't felt since I stepped off the plane with my one-way ticket to Manhattan so many years ago. I felt that I had finally arrived exactly where I was supposed to be. My eyes welled up with tears...again.. but happy tears of adrenaline like they do every year at Broncos' opening kickoff- signaling the beginning of football season. I was finally happy and not just happy, I was at peace. THIS was what all of the suffering had led to. I felt it in my heart and everywhere else. This place had been waiting for us. We were going to be very happy here. This was home.

We watched families with coolers and floaties, and surfers with their boards loaded onto their bikes as they crossed the street and headed to the beach. The exact thing I wished I could be doing but knew deep down, it'd be soon enough. 

We pulled into what looked like the heart of the small island, breathed in the salty air and wandered into the closest real estate office. That's where the best real estate agent we've ever met, Jon Meyers, took us in and showed us around. He wore Teva sandals, board shorts, and croakies.  This is where the love affair with Long Beach began.

YouTube Video of Long Beach & our New Place (w/sound)

(click on link above or visit:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mTa1psoAps)

No more Irene! To read more about the adventures in Long Beach, stay tuned to:

http://longbeachishappiness-sarah.blogspot.com/

Hell or High Water

There has to be a special place in the underworld reserved for John Geltrude of East Rutherford, New Jersey, otherwise known as the slumlord of 108 Park Avenue.

I had stopped by the apartment on Wednesday, August 31st, to grab a few things before heading back to Manhattan when I decided to advise our Superintendent, Bob, of my revelation regarding the man I had still never met. Even after all of this. I also wanted Bob to know that it was my opinion that he may be joining John in Hades, as he would probably be found "guilty by association". Although a servant of "The Man", I liked Bob and wanted to make a last attempt to talk some sense into him. We were soon joined by Bob's brother Joe and then another tenant of the building that happened to be new to the building (pobrecito!). I've never had a problem speaking my mind (says the blogger), especially when I feel I've been wronged, and this was as good of a time as any. All of a sudden, a strange man walked right through my captive audience, through our private entrance, and down into the basement leve that only contained our apartment. I had a feeling this was the devil whom I had been speaking of. By the time I spun on my heels to follow, he already had his key in what was my apartment door.

"Excuse me..?!" I called out, but it had obviously fallen on deaf ears as the intruder was already in the apartment. There was no "how do you do's" at this point, he knew who I was and I knew who he was and neither one of us were interested in formalities. He wouldn't even make eye contact with me as he called out to his serpent, I mean servant, Bob, who came as he was instructed. John asked Bob question after question about the flooring, obviously having no clue about the building he supposedly owned. He followed Bob around the apartment, asking a million questions about things he obviously knew nothing about, as I apparently became invisible in a matter of minutes.

I sat back, made myself comfortable, and watched the show that neither one of them had intended to have an audience for, especially me, the unhappy tenant they were trying to screw over. John decided to make himself comfortable as well, as he ordered Bob and Joe around the apartment. Never once offering to help, he ordered them to pull up several parts of the sub floor that revealed obvious water damage underneath. His face showed the same look of shock that mine did.

He then asked Bob and Joe to pull up one of the planks of hardwood that made up the majority of the remaining sub floor. Although the 120-year old hardwood was real oak, the wood crumbled with the stroke of the hammer, just like rotted wood on a dock of a marina. The wood was completely saturated, (it obviously wasn't it's first rodeo when it came to flooding), and when removed, revealed a soaked-through piece of plywood underneath. John ordered Bob and Joe, who scurried like mice at his command, to grab the drill to see what was underneath the mystery plywood. Mind you, John had previously informed us, very condescendingly, that we were living on top of a cement sub floor, which was already not the case.

Not only was there no cement under the 3/4" plywood, there was nothing at all. That's right. That drill tip hit dirt..or should I say mud. That four-story apartment was being held up by nothing more than wooden, and obviously rotted, joists (a little bigger than 2x4's) and plywood. I wish I was joking.

120-years ago, the poor Italian families that settled in to call Hoboken home realized they were in a disasterous flood zone. To combat the issue, they dug large canyons under their homes to catch the flood water, and simply built on top of them with wood joists, and plywood. For the first time, John Geltrude was realizing that no technology created by modern man in the past 120-years had been used on his apartment building. To him, walls showing massive cracks and doors no longer seeming to close properly throughout the building, weren't signs that this place was soon going to crumble into the earth below- they were just an "insurance hassle".

After this shocking revelation, the generous man that he is, gave us two options. He knew that the only option that would keep him out of prison for being responsible for the sickness and potentially disasterous outcome of other tenants, was to pull up all of the flooring that was now showing mold and rot, and fill in the cavern below with cement to further reinforce the building and to stop the flooding once and for all. But this option came with lost rent and a higher insurance deductable so was tossed out like we were soon to be.

He calmly stated that he would give us two options that did not include the one above. He was planning on putting carpet over the mold and rotted sub floor and calling it a day. If we weren't happy with that, he would "go above and beyond" and actually sand down the remaining sub floor (how much can you sand down 3/4" plywood?), apply a layer of varnish and two layers of sealant, and THEN replace the carpet. Something he said he would let his "kids live with". But not without trying to deter this choice by advising what a messy job sanding was and he wasn't going to be responsible for moving our furniture around to avoid damage. Wow- thank you so much! After advising we had two days to make a decision, he was gone. If we chose neither of the two ridiculous options, we had 15 days to find another place and move in or he would charge us rent for a place we couldn't live in...

Awesome.

On the 2nd of September, John Geltrude received our notice to vacate. We asked that due to the circumstances, to please expedite the return of our deposit as it would be needed for the next place and soon. He stated he was within his rights to return it after 30-days which would start after we vacated. What a lovely man.

And so the saga continued...

Seek and Destroyed...

http://youtu.be/sMXJPfFMbcY

(Click Above Link To View Video of Hoboken & Our Apartment Post Hurricane Irene)

One of my clients called me resilient the other day, I surely prefer that over "unlucky".

My resilience was definitely being tested Tuesday, as well as my dormant ulcer, as my stomach churned on the PATH train headed back to Hoboken. I knew this time, it wasn't because of bad Mexican food.

Many people comment that Manhattan smells in the summertime because of the trash piled high on the sidewalks. I once compared it to McDonalds- it doesn't really matter whats in that to-go bag, somehow, it always smells the same. Today, Hoboken seemed to have the same smell except imagine that instead of trash it was sewage, yet not contained & was instead covering the city like a blanket. Like Manhattan trash, the leaked sewage due to the flooding, was now baking in the sun. It wasn't the first time I've smelled this in Hoboken, but you never get used to it. The ripe scent was my first welcome home gift as I stepped off the train.

Except this place no longer felt like home. As I wondered if it ever truly did, I couldn't help but notice that life seemed back to normal in the Boken. The excruciatingly long line of annoying tourists just waiting to sneak a peek of the Cake Boss was back on Washington Street, after only a two-day break. The mad rush to and from the PATH train, downtown's only connection to the island of Manhattan, was a steady stream of people resembling ants, not thinking, just moving.  Not only the smell, but the emergency vehicles and rescue boats parked in front of city hall were a stark reminder that this place was far from normal. The streets, that just a few days before were canals for homemade boats, were clear and dry but the sand bags that were once part of the sea's floor were still in place. Some offices had already begun the cleanup and the smell of freshly shampooed carpets offered some relief from the inescapable stench. Cars were back to being lined up on the street which wasn't surprising. A parking spot in this town would always be a hot commodity, even in a hurricane.

As I walked down Park Avenue towards our apartment, any hope I had was whisked down the drain just like the gushing water coming from neighboring buildings. Both of my neighbors' basement apartments were furiously pumping water through hoses and PVC pipes from inside their homes. It had been days since the flooding, how was this even possible?

I reached my apartment door but tried as I may, tried as I might, I couldn't get the door to budge. It had obviously swollen from the water damage. I noticed our front window was open a small amount. This was unnerving as I knew anyone else with a brain would be thinking what I was currently thinking. Without hesitation, I lifted the screen and in front of a dozen passersby, who didn't utter a word (typical), I slipped down into my living room. The floor was still wet as the linoleum, previously covered with carpet, settled under my feet. Our furniture and personal items had been carelessly strewn about as building management had tried to pull up the carpet and padding, leaving sewage soaked patches to rot where the furniture was apparently too heavy to move.

They had set up one box fan, (one we owned!), in the main room and a tiny window fan in the bedroom window where a new air conditioning unit had once been. I'm not sure what was worse, the smell of sewage left seeping into wood or the sight of sewage left seeping into wood. Just a few days ago, this had been our home. It was now unrecognizable.

Once the carpet and padding was removed, several subfloors and shoddy patch work had been revealed. At this point we could've guessed, but it didn't lesson the shock. There was gypcrete, plywood, old linoleum and hundred year old hardwood- all damaged, and previously covered up with a layer of carpet and thin padding. All was severely damaged from the flood.

I stayed only long enough to grab more clothes and dog food before getting out. My nostrils burned from anything and everything that was in the air.

In a subsequent conference call with the slumlord, he informed us that he had no intention of removing any of the badly damaged and rotting subfloor before replacing the carpet. He admitted to not actually having seen the property since the flood, but admittedly didn't care because he wasn't interested in loss of rent that would incur from any necessary repairs. He wasn't sure what he was going to cover the damaged subfloor with, carpet or tile, or "maybe even AstroTurf if [he] felt like it!". If we didn't like his proposed solution (or lack thereof) he'd "do us a favor" and let us out of our lease and not charge us for September (not sure how you charge someone who's living in a hotel due to uninhabitable conditions) but this would only be the agreement should we agree to be completely out by Sept 15- approximately 16 days...

I know none of this sounds sane but the real crazy part is that we were actually stunned. Stunned to learn what we had been living with for the last 6 months (this obviously wasn't the first time this place had suffered major water damage that was just covered up with a fresh layer of carpet) and stunned we were at the mercy of a completely thoughtless and demented human being. It was also a bit demented on our part to think we had any recourse as calls to the Hudson Housing Authority and Health Department went unreturned.

I looked like everyone else on the PATH train on my ride back to Midtown that afternoon. In a deep solitary stare with a blank look on my face. One week ago, we were jet setting off on a five-star vacation and now we were essentially homeless. What would tomorrow bring? I couldn't even venture a guess...

Every Dog Has Its Day!

Up until today, Bob has been the only one truly enjoying the "vacation" from Hoboken. For eight simple hours on Monday, one day after the hurricane, Trav and I were able to do the same.

Last April, Trav had booked a surprise for my birthday present. It was taking place on August 29th and that's all I would know until the cab pulled up at our destination at 3pm on Monday. That nasty Irene had taken everything so far but if you know me, you know better than to poke the bear when it comes to my birthday.

Only being one day after the hurricane- I was prepared for the black cloud that was hovering over me, yet not the rest of the city, to ruin the day but was still hopeful and upbeat that I might just beat the odds and have a great day.  On my actual birthday back in June, Trav had taken me to Florida for an amazing week. Unbeknownst to us at the time, it would be our only successful summer vaca so I was thankful to have that, should this day also wind up being added to Irene's Greatest Hits.

It turned out to be a beautiful and sunny day and lucky for me, I had closed my Hoboken business since my staff had evacuated and had yet to be able to get back in, so I had the day wide open for a 3pm surprise.

A pink dress and brown cowboy boots were the only thing salvaged from the Dominican suitcase. Everything else had that familiar musty smell that made us smile when in the Dominican but equated to mothballs when smelling them in Jersey. I got dolled up and forgot about the millions of things that would soon haunt me in the middle of the night.

We took a train to Floral Park from Penn Station and I have to admit, I felt Travs birthday present skills (which have been spot on! in the past) may have gotten a bit rusty as the train roared into Queens. I was quite positive, at that moment, that no one had actually chosen to celebrate their birthday in Queens. I would soon discover how very wrong I was.

The cab pulled up & my boots hit gravel, not the very familiar concrete. I looked around and saw trees instead of high-rise buildings and red barns instead of red brick, and pigs instead of, well, we actually have lots of these in New York as well. Just a slightly different variety...

Trav finally let out the secret he had been holding for four months. An amazing organization called Outstanding in The Field which specializes in "farm to table" was holding a once in a lifetime event for the hundred or so guests that had made it out to Queens Farm (excuse me, Queens County Farm Museum, as it's officially known).

One of the oldest working farms, operational since the 1600's, (in Queens!! Did i mention that already?!) kicked off their private event in a beautiful orchard. Surrounded with fallen apples, large steer, and a giant floppy eared bunny that carelessly hopped from tree to tree eating apples, we mingled while sipping cocktails and enjoyed amazing passed hors d'oeuvres like fluke fish tacos and summer corn soup with tomatillo pesto. Feeling the mud & grass squish beneath my feet and the warm 80-degree sun on my skin (my long lost friend, the sun) was bliss but I had much bigger things in store for me.

We toured the farm- oh yeah, I was fighting food poisoning from the night before from post-hurricane Chipotle. Knowing Travs restaurant hadn't received deliveries all week, I'm really not sure why I thought Chipotle would be any different. Live & learn. Or live, pay for your mistakes, and then learn. I took several breaks to sit down in the shade while the crowd learned all the workings of the farm.

All of my worries, cares, (and stomach pains) disappeared as I saw a beautiful, long table (just one!) elegantly placed in the middle of the lushly green vineyard & corn fields. We were all instructed to grab a plate and a seat as we met our new "family" as dinner was served family style. The dinner was to be cooked basically table-side by Top Chef Master Marcus Samuelson (picture below)! (I'm a huge fan!!!) WOW!!

I've been to Blue Hill at Stone Barns twice so to say it was the dinner of a lifetime would be a tough call. However, I don't think I've had better atmosphere, a better chef, or a better group of people to share it with. Immediately adopted into the family at the table, we laughed continuously as the wine flowed and dishes were passed. We had fresh corn bread with tomato jam & fresh honey butter from Bronx bees, heirloom tomato & watermelon salad- served fresh from the farm. Yard bird with mace gravy, jerk bacon and beans and corn succotash. The food was nothing short of amazing!

We dined on course after course until the sun had set and all dishes were cleared.

With tears in my eyes (happy one's this time!) I thanked Trav for yet another completely unforgettable experience. The rain stopped and the sky lit up with blue.. For just one night. Reality would be there in the morning but it could wait!