A few months ago, after years of renting, the Wife and I began looking to buy a place of our own in New York City. ‘If we don’t buy now, then when the economy picks up, we’ll be LL all over again,’ she said, employing the transliterated initials for a graphic Hokkien term that implies deep regret.
Our state of LL-ness, however, began to look inevitable. Although prices were supposedly at historic lows, the bargains were also usually booby prizes: Either they were in super-posh neighbourhoods (down US$3 million to a ‘mere’ US$11 million) or dodgy ones where you need a Kevlar jacket just to go to the supermarket. Meanwhile, in our preferred neighbourhoods, prices saw only slight dips, and we found that the homes we could afford were either in inconvenient locations or in an advanced state of deterioration.
And then we found the Little Blue House.
A whole house. In New York City. And it was freshly painted with three large, sunny bedrooms, a sizeable basement, a barbecue-ready backyard with a tall oak tree from whose leafy branches a swing dangled charmingly… perfect for a couple to bring up their baby in. Naturally, this raised the question of how come we could afford it. Continue reading
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