A house, a real house, we were considering, not un-seriously, in Ditmas Park is a “House of the Day” in the Wall Street Journal. It makes me think twice, as a well-shot slide show will do (these aren’t the photos used on the realtor’s site). Too bad they didn’t capture the kooky ‘60s wallpaper, bar and wood-shingled walls in the basement.
The best part was that the kitchen was a time capsule, but a distinctly Brooklyn one. Every apartment I've lived in here has a crappy Magic Chef stove, probably from the early '90s that can't bake or roast worth shit. And here, was a nearly $1.4 million property with an even older version of a Magic Chef. There is no escaping the Magic Chef. At least it didn't have the ubiquitous, three-door, mirrored, particle board bathroom cabinent with dressing room bulbs along the top.
After a few jaunts to the area and walks around the blocks, it just felt too far, the neighborhood (which isn’t the heart of more desirable Ditmas Park, but technically Midwood) doesn’t have a lot of amenities and is kind of ragged around the edges (for the price—none of those qualities are deal-breakers in and of themselves, and you know I complain about Carroll Gardens’ homogeneity, affluence, and popularity). You could get a (smaller, though not small in the least) new condo with flashy high-end appliances and outdoor space in prime Brooklyn for that. I've seen at least twenty of them.
After eight years in this apartment (well, for James—he moved in October and I did not until the following March) great as it seemed at the time, I’m burnt out. I’m not sure where there is to go. If I even see a stroller stashed in a common area, like last weekend at a condo open house where there were–no joke–seven directly in front of the door of the ground floor apt we had interest in, I will turn around and leave. I can’t stand shared space anymore and I don’t care if people say that’s part of city living because soon enough I will be a genuine old crank.