Housing Situation Archive

This is making me more than a little nervous:

Housing sales in July plunged to their lowest level in more than a decade, exceeding even the grimmest forecasts.

The National Association of Realtors said Tuesday that the seasonally adjusted annual sales rate of 3.83 million was 25.5 percent below the level of July a year ago.

The July sales were down 27.2 percent from June.

It was the lowest rate for existing-home sales since 1999. For sales of single-family homes, it was the lowest since 1995.

Analysts expected a decline because July was the first month in which buyers could not take advantage of a tax credit. That helped prop up the market last winter. But most had predicted a decline of only about 13 percent.

I don't want to buy now if the house market is just going to completely crash again.

Dean Baker, co-director of the Center for Economic and Policy Research, estimates that it will take 20 years to recoup the $6 trillion of housing wealth that has been lost since 2005. After adjusting for inflation, values will never catch up.

"People shouldn't look at a home as a way to make money because it won't," Mr. Baker said.

If the long term is grim, the short term is grimmer. Housing experts are bracing themselves for Tuesday, when the sales figures for July will be released. The data is expected to show a drop of as much as 20 percent from last year.

The supply of homes sitting on the market might rise to as much as 12 months, about twice the level of a healthy market. That would push down prices as all those sellers compete to secure a buyer, adding to a slide that has already chopped off as much as 30 percent in home values.

Doesn't exactly inspire confidence and make me want to rush out and buy a home. On the one hand, I want to move. I need to be in a bigger place in a better neighborhood. On the other hand, why should I dump my savings into a sinking ship. I need a place to live so I'm either going to pay rent or pay a mortgage, but my rent is reasonable and housing prices have not come down so much in the Bay Area—at least the desireable parts of the Bay Area—to create any kind of parity in the market between buying and leasing, not like it has in, say, Phoenix:

Here are some shots of the interior of the Ghetto Cottage right before I moved all my shit in and despoiled the place.

Ok. I've been putting this off long enough. I've been putting it off because I think it's going to be a long post and I haven't had much patience with writing lately, but it's time to get the story online before it fades too far in the distance.

On November 2nd I moved from my shitty corporate apartment complex in Alameda to a little cottage about 10 minutes walk from work on the Emeryville/Oakland border.

I want to start with something positive, so there are certain things I will miss about Alameda and my apartment. I will miss walking the cats down the end of the street and watching the Sunset over San Francisco. I will miss my closet space - I had three rather large closets. I will miss the onsite gym and the pool although they stopped heating it when utility prices started to skyrocket. The thing I think I will miss the most is being able to pay my rent with WorldPerks credit card. That's about it.

Here's what I won't miss:

• The water would never drain in the tub no matter how much Liquid Plummer I would pour down there
• The electric stove
• The dishwasher that can't wash dust off a dish
• The pathetic management
• The driers on the second floor which would randomly decide not to dry your clothes
• The office which would close inexplicable when I would come home to pay the rent or pick up a package
• My house key which would not work on the front door
• Having my parking space given away to a new tenant
• Being addressed as Andrew Heche
• Being isolated in Alameda
• A zillion more things that I can't think of now that were making me miserable

For those of you who haven't been following or forgot the deal, I'll recap the basics of the story for you.

I moved into the Ballena Village Apartments in December of last year. Within a week I received a letter from management saying that as part of their ongoing efforts to improve the plumbing, contractors would need access to my apartment for 10 days (it turned out to be more like 14) at the end of January, which was odd since I asked about the plumbing before I moved in and was told it was fine. How much can you learn by turning on the taps? They worked when I was there. The water pressure was fine. I was deliberately deceived by the staffer who showed me around, Don Dunbar. After I signed my lease and moved in, the same Don Dunbar explained to me that he made a mistake when he told me that the cat deposit was for all pets. It was per pet. He was shaking me down for double deposit. I never paid it. In January when the contractors came into my place, they managed to seal one of my cats behind the drywall and moved a huge bookcase to get at the pipes in the kitchen sink and never moved it back. I complained to the corporate office. Heartless bastards offered me no compensation. Even the contractors felt some contrition and offered me a small check in compensation. The only thing Ballena would agree to was to terminate my lease and return my deposit in full (I doubt they will live up to the full deposit, but we'll see). I would have moved out sooner, but it's tough to find a good place and I didn't want to make the same mistake again. One day I came home from work, about 2 months ago, and there was a car parked in my spot. I went upstairs to call the office, but I realized I left my keys in the office. It's about a 30 minutes round trip from Alameda to my office, so I figured the car would be gone when I got back. It wasn't. I was standing behind it getting ready to call the office when I see these two women approaching. The older one looks at me and says, are the one who parked in my spot last night? I said if by your spot you mean my spot, then yes. This is my spot. She said it was her spot. I said it was my spot and rather than go on like that, I said, when did you move in. She says, two days ago. I say, that's interesting, because I moved here in December and have been parking in the same spot ever since. Can you move your car please. No. I was so fucking upset. I called the office. No one answered and I left a message. I called the late night security to have her towed, but all they would do is come down and put a note on her car. I saw the two of them getting into a Miata in the outside lot. I went up to them and asked again if she would move her car, just as a matter of courtesy since there was a mistake and it was my spot. She said. And then her younger friend with an annoying New York accident started tearing into me saying it wasn't her (meaning her friend's) problem. It was the complex's problem. She wasn't going to move. So much for civility. She was forced to move the next day when she was reassigned. I should have slashed her tires.

Anyway, for these reasons and many more, I wanted/needed to get the hell out of there. The problem is that there is a shortage of quality housing in the Bay Area. I could have moved immediately to some shitty place or an expensive place or even worse a shitty expensive place, but I have a lot of stuff and I didn't want to move and then have to move again. I wanted to find the right place and move once. I looked all over. In the city. In all the desirable parts of the East Bay and some of the not so desirable parts of the East Bay. I even upped the amount I was willing to pay to $1500 but I still didn't find anything worthwhile. Even worse, I would show up at these places that I thought were crap and there would be heaps of people looking it over and filling out applications. It was totally discouraging.

I didn't find anything until October 30 when I answered an ad for a detached cottage in Emeryville (It's really in Oakland, but it doesn't really matter). I didn't have high hopes. I didn't really want to live in Emeryville (or Oakland for that matter). I would have preferred North Berkeley or Rockridge, but at that point it was really time to extend my options. And I'm so glad I did.

I walked into this place I knew immediately that I could live here. I would say wanted to live there, but there was another cottage listed on Craigslist (with no contact number??) that I wanted to check out but never did get to see. The house in front is a Craftsman's style and the cottage is to the to side, not in the back like most of them, so it has the sense of being a house on its own. Adding to this sense is the fact that it comes with a garage, which right now is full of my stuff but will soon house my Subaru. Next to the garage is a wood fence which leads to a set of stairs. The left is my wooden deck and to the right is the pistachio (not my favorite color, but what the hell) door. Inside, the house is long and narrow, maybe 18 feet wide and 50 feet deep. Off to the right, there's a working fireplace flanked by built in bookcases. If you hook a right u-turn you go up the stairs to the bedroom which is above the garage. You go straight through the living room to the kitchen and the bathroom. The whole place is floored with bamboo. There's central heat. A stacked washer/dryer in bathroom. The kitchen looks brand new like it came right out of a modern living brochure. It's all white, rimmed in cabinets with copper handles. The gas stove has a built in microwave. New fridge with the freezer on the bottom (keeps the cats from
sticking their nose inside and inventorying my fridge every time I open it). Pur water filter on the tap. A dishwasher that actually washes dishes. 15 minutes walk to the Ashby BART. 10 minute walk to work. It's my new oasis. I walk around it and I can't believe it's mine.

Moving there turned out to be a huge headache. I was going to call movers to do it for me, but one of my coworkers said, hey forget that, get a U-haul and I'll help you move. 11 hours or completer struggle later we managed to move all the heavy stuff from my third floor apartment to the cottage. We started at 5 right after work didn't finish unloading everything into the garage until after 4am. I knew I had a lot of stuff, but I didn't realize I could fill a 17' truck. I couldn't even get everything in there. I had to go back for some small stuff, the dishes, all the food in the fridge and the cats the next day. It was about 15 trips up and down the stairs because as a last Fuck You from Ballena to Andrew, the ancient elevator was busted on my last day in the apartment. Fucking shithole.

Anyway, that's done and I've been spending my time organizing my things, putting books in the cases, getting comfortable, waking up late, going home for lunch. It's great. Somehow I feel like it was meant to be and after almost a year of suffering I deserve to have a great place to come home to.

On top of all this, I can let the cats come and go from the cottage. I've kept them in the house so far, although they managed to sneak out the front door once or twice, because I want to make sure they know where home is. But I put their collars back on last night and made them new tags and will soon send them out to roam around the neighborhood, maybe as soon as this weekend, so expect some little cat lost stories coming shortly.

Moving back to the mainland. Details to come.

I guess the going rate for accidentally encasing a cat in the walls is 100 bucks. I know this because Jess, the foreman of the contracting crew working on the plumping in my apartment building, came by this morning before 8 o'clock this morning to hand deliver a check for that amount in compensation, I suppose. He told me he has taken a good ribbing down at the shop, which I couldn't care less about. I thanked him and shut the door in his face. Then I looked down at the check and saw that it was made out to "Andrew Heche". I don't know any Andrew Heche. That's certainly not me. I don't even know if I will be able to cash it. It's a perfect representation of the lack of attention to detail and consideration by these plumbers and my apartment complex which still hasn't addressed the issue of the major inconvenience and disturbance of having my place ripped up within a month of moving in.

Last week, before my kitten was sealed in the walls by either an unconscious, incompentent or malicious plumber, I filled out a survey on the website of the corporation that owns my apartment complex detailing the bullshit that I've had to put up with since I arrived at the Ballena Village Apartments (Where Coming Home Is The Best Part Of Your Day). On Sunday, of all days, I got an email back from Veronica Dickerson, Regional Portfolio Manager (what the fuck is that?), empathizing about my less than positive experience and wanting to know what she could do to make it better. I'm dying to hearing her response when I tell her that my cat was entombed by the maintencance crew. She'll have to be fairly creative to "provide resolution to [my] concerns." She can start by making sure the fucking plumbers stay the fuck away from my cats. Then she can finish by giving me a free month's rent.

Here's the letter.

Dear Mr. Hecht,
Thank you for taking the time to complete our on-line resident survey. Customer satisfaction is our number one priority here at Sequoia Equities and we rely on feedback from our residents to help us achieve excellence in customer service. I apologize that you have not had a positive experience and I would like to speak with you to provide resolution to your concerns. I left a message for you and I look forward to speaking with you. Please feel free to contact me at (925) 945-0900 at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Veronica Dickerson
Regional Portfolio Manager
Sequoia Equities
(925) 945-0900
vdickerson@sequoiaequities.com

This is the motto my apartment complex. It just seems weird that any apartment let alone my apartment has a motto, but there it is. It would be an acceptable motto, if they could, you know, live up to it. I mean, who wouldn't want coming home to be the best part of your day? However they don't even come close so coming home tends to be the most aggravating part of my day, and I don't particularly care for my job, so this is saying something. So when I call the management office to talk to someone about a problem and I get the voicemail message that says, thank you for calling Ballena Village Apartments where coming home is the best part of your day, I want to rip the fucking phone out of the wall. Rest assured, in the unlikely event that I do ever own an apartment complex, you can bet your ass that it will not ever have a fucking motto.

Good. Now that I've got that off my chest, I can get down to business. I've been in my place about a month now. I should have been writing about my experience as it was happening, but it was a slow drip, like Chinese water torture that only finally came to a boil last night. Let me try to recap some of the problems.

I visited the apartment on a Monday and decided I would take the place. I was told I would be able to move in on Thursday. It turned out that I wasn't able to move in until Saturday. The reason: the guy who showed me the place was off Tuesday and Wednesday and no one else in the office wanted to do the paperwork. I should have taken this as a bad sign and told them to fuck off.

The day I come with the movers, the elevator is flooded and inoperable. This wouldn't be so bad except the key they gave me doesn't work in any of the outside doors.

I'm told that the office will accept packages that are too big to fit in my mailbox, but the first time I get a package, it isn't accepted and I have to go all the way to the Oakland airport to pick it up in person during my lunch hour.

The first time I tried to do laundry, I put a load in the washer, then I put the soap in. I went to put the quarters in, but there are no quarter slots, only a slot for a card. There's no machine in the laundry room in my building to buy a card. I go down to the main laundry room near the pool to get a card. There's a machine, but there's a hand written sign on it that says it's broken and won't be fixed for two days. So my laundry is sitting in the washer covered with soap. I have to take it out, put it back in the hamper and drive to the closest laundromat. Did I mention it was freezing outside?

I gave a list of things that needed to be fixed in my apartment to one of the onsite managers before I moved in. He said it would all be taken care before I moved in. Was it? Of course not. It took a month of persistent pestering to get them to work on my place.

There's a note taped on my door the first week after I move in telling me that the water needs to be turned off from 8:30-4:30 one day. Not a problem since I'm not in the apartment, usually, during those hours. When I come home after work and turn on the tap, it gurgles to life and spits out an effluvia of brackish brown sludge like some third world nightmare hotel. This water kills my Brita filter that's supposed to be good for three months in less than a week.

On December 31st, less than two weeks after I moved in, I get a long letter from the management telling me that there is going to be major plumbing work in my building and in my apartment. Did they mention this when I was thinking about moving in? Take a guess. People are going to have to come in and out my place for 7 days. I'm instructed, if I have pets, and I do, to keep them in the bedroom and keep the door shut. This is great advice except there is no door between my bedroom and the bathroom in my apartment. I tell them this and they provide an apartment two floors down where the cats can stay during the day. Bringing Fil down is no problem. But every time I take Mak out of the apartment, he wails like we're headed for kitty Auschwitz. It's even worse because there are all these plumbers around making horrible noises as they cut through dry wall and pipes. I have to leave my cats in this empty apartment all day.

Meanwhile the plumbers are working away on my apartment. One day I come and the toilet seat has been ripped from the toilet. No note. No nothing. Just the broken toilet seat. I say something and the next day I come home and the toilet seat has been replaced but the toilet doesn't work. One Sunday I came home from Tahoe to find that the plumbers had turned on the heater and left it running all weekend. They always leave the fucking lights, inconsiderate bastards.

Then I got a call from the management who said that the plumbers needed to work on the apartment where the cats were staying during the day and I needed to lock them in the bedroom of that apartment. On Tuesday, I ran into the foreman who told me that on that day and on Thursday (yesterday) I wouldn't have to move the cats downstairs, because they wouldn't be working on my place. They'd only need to come in for an inspection.

On Thursday I get a call from the management telling me they rented the apartment where I have my cats and I can't keep them there any longer. I'm not given another apartment as a replacement. When I come home Thursday night, the cat food and blankets that I left in the borrowed apartment are sitting on my door step. I open the door. Only one cat comes. This is unusual, but not alarming. Maybe Fil was sleeping when I came home and didn't want to get up.

I start looking for her. I can't find her in the usual spots. I look some more. Then I hear some faint meows coming from the bathroom. I look, but no cat. I can still hear the meows. They are coming from BEHIND THE FUCKING WALL. Like I said, the plumbers had cut massive sections of dry wall to get at the pipes. Fil had wandered in there and the stupid ass plumbers encased her in the walls. I got out my power screwdriver and liberated her. She was stunned.

I was so fucking pissed. And this on a day when the plumbers, according to the foreman, were not even supposed to be working in my place. When I talked to the foreman this morning, he apologized profusely, but insisted that he didn't me tell not to move the cats on Thursday. What was I going to do, sit there and argue with him about what he told me? Unbelievable.

The big question now is what to do. I don't want coming home to be the worst part of my day, but I fully expect this sort of bullshit to continue over the next 11 months. The complex is owned by a large real estate conglomerate located conveniently in Walnut Creek. I think I'm going to have to go pay them a little visit.

Here is the pile of stuff that I took out of my storage shed.

All of this stuff, including 26 12 gallon plastic crates, a stereo, a few milk crates, a dozen bags, a microwave, my HP printer, framed posters and photos, kitchen stuff and office supplies, and tons of other loose things were jammed into a 5x5x10 box in Alameda for the last 28 months.

Last night I started to tackle the mess. Now it looks like this.

A little better, no?

I'm a horrible packrat, so it was great fun going through all these boxes and re-discovering my things. Most of the remaining crates that you see are full of books. I only have one bookcase at the moment so they will have to remain crated up until I decide what to do about furniture.

Third and final part of the move was going to be the trickiest. I had to move my queen size bed, one bookcase and a sectional sofa that Jennifer had bequeathed to me. I could have rented a truck, but I didn't really want to deal with moving it myself so I hired movers. I went with a respectable outfit, Starving Students.

I made all the arrangements on the phone. It was going to be 75 bucks and hour. Even with the so-called California mandated double drive time, it shouldn't take more than 2 hours to get my stuff from Jen's apartment in Walnut Creek, drive 30 minutes to Alameda and move everything up three floors to my new place. These guys are used to moving entire houses filled with furniture, so this job should be a cakewalk for them.

When I arranged the move, they gave me a window between 8-10 when the movers would show up. I wanted it closer to 8 so I could get it out of the way and go to work. They didn't show up until 9:20. By that time I had Jennifer's cats locked in the bathroom and mine squirreled away in my car.

The second part of the three (really four) part move was to get Jennifer's bed (full) from her parents house in Danville over to her apartment in Walnut Creek since I was going to be taking my bed (queen) to my new place in Alameda. The only really mystery here was to find out if the mattress would fit in the back of my Subaru.

When we drove down to Danville after work it the fog had rolled in over the mountains from the bay and it was socked in so thick we couldn't see more than 50 feet in front of us which made navigating to their house up winding roads in the foothills a real treat. We grabbed the bed out of the storage in the back and jammed into my car. It just barely fit which was a good thing because the mattress was slightly longer than the back of my car so it stuck out about a foot, but since it was squeezed in there so tight, it wasn't going anywhere. With the help of Jennifer's mom, an knot tying expert, we tied down the tailgate just in case and hit the curvy backroads up to Walnut Creek.

We just went slow and took it easy and it turned out to be a piece of cake. It was far easier than the first day of moving. I even found a gas station (Rotten Robbie's) where I filled my tank for less than 2 bucks a gallon, something that hasn't happened for at least 6 months.

Today was moving day, at least the first part of a multi-phased move that will (hopefully) return harmony to my divergent life by bringing together all my things in one place for the first time in over two years. The first step was to move most of the small things out my old place to my new place, the easy part, and emptying my storage facility, the hard part.

When I was going into the Peace Corps, I, unlike many of colleagues, had a huge dilemma, what to do with all my stuff. Most of my Peace Corps friends came straight out of college or lived at home so they didn't need to pack stuff up, throw stuff out or do anything other than leave everything they owned in situ.

On the other hand, I had a lot of stuff. Well, that's not really true. I didn't have a lot of stuff. I had a lot of books. And I didn't want to get rid of them. I had spent most of the last 15 years collecting them and there was no good reason, other than they take up tons of space and are absurdly heavy, to give them up.

So I did what so many other Americans who are overburdened with stuff do, I found a storage place, and I stuck just about everything I owned in there. Not everything. I gave a few things away. I sold my vacuum cleaner, my G3 Mac, and one bookcase (big mistake). And I placed some things with my friends. Erin got my desk. Michael got my TV. Jennifer got my bed, my computer and a few bookcases. Everything else, except the fragile things and the gear I needed for Samoa, was jammed into a 5x5 shed at Alameda Point Storage, ironically only 200 yards or so from my new apartment.

Alameda Point Storage was not the most convenient place in the world. But it was the cheapest. Since I was going away for 27 months (or so I thought at the time), I had to find the best deal to keep my things, otherwise, I would have gone broke preserving my stuff. When I first moved my things in there, the space ran 27 bucks a months. It was a sweet deal, even if the storage sheds were not exactly clean and even if, the sea air might mildew a few things. It was all I could afford (even with my mom helping out).

I bought 25 12-gallon hard plastic crates and filled them with books, sweaters, bric-a-brac and all manner of things that I couldn't bear to part with. There were 4 stacks 8 crates high, all the way to the ceiling. Inside I put my stereo, my microwave, my printer, my clothes hamper, my tent, my sleeping bag, my cooking stuff, my flatware, my plates, my bowls, my shoes, my old cameras, just tons and tons of stuff, until I could barely get the door closed. It was jammed full of crap and going to be jammed full of crap for at least 27 months.

Not everything always goes as planned. The first unplanned event was that wile I was in Samoa, Alameda Point Storage decided to raise there rates for a 5x5 shed from 27 and change to 38 and change. I wrote them a letter to complain, but I never knew if they got it. They certainly didn't respond by lowering my rate back to the original 27 bucks. I figured they didn't get the letter.

I also left the Peace Corps after a year. Ironically, this month marks the exact time that I would have been exiting Samoa if I had stayed on for the entire stint. I did visit the shed once before, back in November, when I came up to San Francisco for my sister's wedding. I was looking for a pair of sunglasses, and, big surprise here, I couldn't find them in the mess of stuff.

Anyway, I returned to Alameda Point Storage to clean out my shed today. I unlocked the medal door and rolled up as far as it could go and started removing dust covered bags a other loose items until the door would roll all the way up. It took five trips and several hours with my trusty Subaru Outback but I managed to move literally a ton of stuff out of the shed and into my third floor apartment via the ancient elevator that services my building.

It was so gratifying not only to free my stuff of the bonds of storage, but not ever again to have to see this listing on my credit card statement:

Alameda Point Storage Alameda Ca $38.06

I went into the office to terminate my contract and after I washed my hands (they were filthy) I sat across the desk from the manager and watched as flipped through the papers in my file, which included, amongst other things, the unanswered letter that I had written them from Samoa. Bastards.

After six months of living with a friend, I finally have my own apartment. It's in Alameda, a little island maybe 100 feet off the coast of Oakland, but an island nonetheless.

The apartment is far from perfect, but it's large, much closer to work and it's all mine. When I started looking, there were three main things that I was looking for. First was that the place had to be good for the cats. Ideally they would be able to go outside, run around, and be safe. Well, they can't go outside here, but they can hang on my third floor balcony. A compromise. Second was that I wanted to able to walk to a commercial area with restaurants, markets and shops. I didn't really get that. There is a commercial street about a half mile away and Alameda, unlike most of the rest of the Bay Area, doesn't have a massive parking shortage, so this isn't such a big deal. Lastly, I wanted a gas stove. I love to cook. Gas is so much more preferable for so many reasons. This place has an all electric kitchen. C'est la vie. I will deal with it.

Basically, I decided to give up my search for the perfect place after having a heart break over a near perfect place in Rockridge, one of the nicest sections of Oakland. I happened upon this smallish remodeled cottage for rent. It was only a block from upscale College Avenue, with all its trendy restaurants, and within walking distance of BART. The cats could have roamed freely. It had granite countertops in the kitchen and all the appliances (including a gas stove) were so new, they weren't even in the apartment when I went to look at it. I was the first to put in application. I thought I would get it, but after two weeks of being strung along with poor communication, the place was given to someone else.

So instead of perfect, I have acceptable. Instead of a gas stove, I have a fitness center, a spa, a pool, a reserved covered parking space, a laundry facility and mallard ducks that swim in the manmade canals that run around the place. Instead of walking to dinner, I can walk down the street and watch the sun set over San Francisco. Instead of a cramped space that can barely fit all my stuff, I have more room than I need, more than I've ever had. I can handle this for a year while I decompress and settle into a normal life.

New Address:

341 Tideway Drive #308
Alameda, CA 94501

How much is too much to pay for an apartment?

It's a problem I've been struggling with for the last several weeks as I have looked around the Bay Area for a reasonably priced place to life. The average rate for a 1-bedroom apartment in the East Bay (Oakland, Alameda, Berkeley, Emeryville, etc.) is roughly $900 a month. However, depending on where you want to live that 900 might not go very far. For a place that I'm going to be happy with, I'm probably looking at something like $1050. The perfect place, The Courtyards at 65th, which is just down the street and brand new, would run me $1450. I know it's crazy to even think about paying that.

The most important thing for me is to find a place that's good for the cats. Ideally, they would have easy access to and from the apartment and a safe neighborhood to play around in. It's limiting to search for an apartment that allows pets let alone one in area that's good for them. But this is non-negotiable.

Then I have a list of things that I would like but I can live without including: a gas stove, hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, off-street parking, close to shopping, restaurants, public transportation.

I need my own place to sleep and keep my things, and I'm desperate to clear out my storage shed, gather my belongings from various places around California and have all my things in one place, but I'm not willing to settle for some place where I'm going to be miserable.

My sister Marni and her husband Paris just bought a house in Richmond (north of Berkeley for those of you not familiar with the Bay Area) and are going to vacate the 1 bedroom apartment near the Civic Center in San Francisco. Paris has been living there for years (more than 10, I think) and paying rent way, way below market. I'm sure everyone is thrilled. Marni and Paris to move into a larger place to raise their newborn son who is on the way and the landlords who have been renting the place at a huge discount to the market forever.

This week I found out from Marni that if I want to, I can rent the place for $1100 a month. That's far more than she and Paris were paying, but far less than market in the city, which its astronomical rental prices even after the dotcom bust and 9/11 drove heaps of unemployed workers back from whenst they came.

Now, $1100 is still a lot of money. I could probably rent a comparable place over here in the East Bay for $900 or less. But I have always wanted to live in the city. The commute to Emeryville might be a pain if the bridge backs up, but I'm willing to live with that. Plus I can always take BART.

My main consideration, as always these days is the cats. Living in the city, they will not be able to go outside and will be housebound for however long I decide to live there. They have been doing reasonably well in house arrest in Walnut Creek, but I know both would prefer to be able to run around the neighborhood.

Marni and Paris won't be moving out until the middle of next month so I have some time to look around and make the right decision. I'm kind of hoping that I find a perfect place on this side of the bay and the decision is made for me.

<b>From</b>: "Lafi, Esera"
<b>To</b>: "Andrew Hecht (E-mail)" <hechtic1@yahoo.com>
<b>Subject</b>: Accommodation
<b>Date</b>: Thu, 21 Aug 2003 16:19:29 -1100

Still not being able to get hold of Maiava (told early this morning that
he was in a Management meeting) but did talk to the new Secretary for
Housing.

From what he said, Claire's house at Vaiala has been taken. I requested
him to scout out for a vacant /available place in and around Apia for you.
I have followed that up with a letter requesting a house and I reminded
him that you need to get out of Fagalii and I would appreciate if he can
find a house. I will continue to communicate with him and hope that he can come up with the goods. Tried to get hold of Maiava again after 3:00pm but was
told that he went out. Will keep on trying??

I talked to Maiava today at work and he said that he hasn't been able to get in touch with his "buddy" at Public Works. I don't think anything is ever going to happen. It's such a fucken mess. If I don't get Claire's house, which I have more and more doubts about, I don't know where I'm going to live. I don't know of any other furnished place in town.

Sure I got spiders. Mostly there are the daddy long legs variety that hang innocently in the corners of the bathroom. I tend to leave those guys alone since they hoover up the insects. It's the big, hairy freaky spiders that I have to watch out for.

Rather than describe them, I going to give you a snippet of the Instant Message conversation I had with my brother the day after the first of these spiders showed in my place (that would be the 22nd of January at 1:21AM, in case you were curious):

I was walking home tonight from dinner at Mina's. Mele had cooked some veggie stir fry with garlic and ginger that I had picked up for her at the new market. When I reached the top of the little where my three unit fale sits, my neighbors two huge dogs were barking at me furiously.

I picked up a couple of rocks and walked cautiously towards the house. I didn't really want to use them and make a bad impression on my first night. The dogs didn't calm down, but instead increased their intensity as I edged forward. I could hear my neighbors laughing at me.

As I neared the step up to the porch, the dogs split and I thought I had a free and clear path to my door, but one of the dogs rushed me and bit fiercely into my right calf. I let out a little yelp of pain (probably more like "sonofabitch!).