Moving Notes

I’m moving again. After living for eight years in Pico-Robertson, I’ve become nomadic, moving three times in the past year. The Silver Lake apartment was a bust—noisy upstairs neighbor. And my South Pasadena apartment doesn’t work—too remote. Now I’m moving back to Los Angeles, probably the Fairfax district.

The search for a new place has been grim. Probably I’m too picky. I want location, size, and aesthetics, all at a reasonable price. Of the ten or so rentals I’ve seen, only two won me over, and I still hold reservations about both. I’ll have to decide in a day or two where I’m going to live. If I can’t decide on a destination, I may just stay in South Pas, even if it means that I become a hermit.

I’ve noticed that many landlords do a terrible job of promoting their properties. They do such a poor job that I wonder how many of them became landlords in the first place. Many don’t know how to post a photo online. And those who do know how often post unflattering or unrevealing images. (Of course, the posting of unrevealing photos is often intentional; many apartments in L.A. are depressing in design and atmosphere.) More puzzling still is their habit of showing apartments that haven’t yet been vacated or cleaned. Yesterday I toured a place in the Fairfax district that was empty but not clean. The wood floors were covered with dust and paint chips. The kitchen counters and the bathtub bore mysterious stains and residue. A Depression-era flophouse was cleaner.

Even worse, a few days ago I saw a place that was neither clean nor vacant. The current tenant, a bearish guy with long hair and nipple-piercings, walked around shirtless. Two people were asleep on old couches in the living room, covered by blankets like corpses. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes. One of the bedrooms was painted lime. It was a repository for the tenant’s junk—old TVs, books, empty boxes. A large foul-smelling dog trotted around the place, barking.

When can I move in?

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