We're not in Kansas anymore!

By Lisa A. Eramo

"Don't worry, the landlord will fix that gaping hole in the front porch. He's going to be doing some work on the exterior of the house this summer," said the realtor, fumbling with her keys so she could quickly open the front door and reduce the amount of time we'd have to notice any other major flaws in the house's deteriorating porch.

The hole and rotted wood didn't surprise me. When we had initially pulled up to the house, we almost couldn't believe our eyes. The pictures on craigslist looked nothing like this house that appeared to be a spitting image of something the Adam's family would have owned.

The lawn was overgrown with weeds, a window on the second floor was busted out and covered with cardboard, and chipping paint and dirty siding certainly left something to be desired. But, we figured we'd go inside and take a look. Maybe this place was like a geode--ugly on the outside, but a hidden gem once you got in there.

Wishful thinking.

The previous tenant appeared to have left the place in a whirlwind. Literally. There were crayons on the floor, Q-tips and opened toiletries left in the bathroom, dust bunnies galore, and probably even food in the fridge (I was too afraid to look). The realtor could hardly answer any of our questions, including basic ones such as 'Do you know what the landlord's timeline is for fixing the porch?' and 'Where is the washer/dryer hookup?' and 'How much of the basement would be ours?' She had that deer in headlights look whenever we asked for more information.

Hmm. This was not the apartment for us...and certainly not at a price tag of $950/mo.

Unfortunately, horror stories such as this one have become increasingly more common the more apartments we view and landlords/realtors we meet.

For example, consider the realtor who made us drive in torrential downpours to see a third floor apartment only to realize she didn't have the right keys after we climbed three flights of stairs. We know it couldn't have been intentional because she herself had just had hip surgery and really wasn't in a position to be climbing up one step let alone three winding flights of them. Crazy, huh?

Oh, and we can't forget the realtor who looked at us as though we each had ten heads when asked the question 'Do you mind if we eventually meet the landlord before signing any lease?'

"Um, that's really odd, don't you think?" she said, squinting at us in the middle of the street as we walked back to our respective cars. "Most tenants don't want to meet the landlord."

"Actually, I don't think it's strange at all," I said. "I want to get a sense of his or her communication style."

Needless to say, it wasn't going to work out. If the landlord didn't want to meet us, we didn't want to pay his or her mortgage. End of story.

In some cases, I put the kibosh on the apartment after exchanging an email or speaking on the phone.

One landlord with whom I spoke told me there was a dishwasher in the kitchen but that it wasn't currently working. When asked whether she planned to fix it prior to a new tenant moving in, she said "Oh, no. We won't be fixing it."

Did we want to rent from a landlord who didn't fix appliances? Um, no thanks.

Another landlord told me in an email that he didn't know whether there was a washer/dryer hookup in the house. Not sure how you couldn't know the answer to this very basic question, but needless to say, I took that place off the list right away.

Ugh, it has been a treacherous journey thus far. Among our travels to view apartments, we've overlooked plenty of dirt. We've nearly broken our legs climbing into dark basements because "the electricity has been turned off." We've gotten lost trying to find places that were off the beaten path. We've argued. We've laughed. We're realized how difficult it is to find a nice apartment and that in some ways, any place you hang your hat is home.

PS: We've got several more apartments lined up throughout this week and next, so stay tuned for other hilarious stories!

A $75 view of the Long Island Sound

By Lisa A. Eramo

This past weekend, Mel and I had to travel to Long Island for a funeral on her side of the family. We decided to make it an overnight visit so I could see where she was born and raised and so we could spend some time exploring the area. I'd never been there, and she hadn't been back in almost 10 years. Things would surely look different. Let's take a stroll down memory lane and see how much things had changed, we said.

Aside from visiting her old school, the house in which she used to live, and several other area attractions, we decided to drive into a small and very affluent village in Port Jefferson called Belle Terre. Mel and her mom used to drive through the development and stare wide-eyed at the multi-million dollar homes. At the end of the tree-lined and windy street that dissects the village, there's a small dead-end rotary overlooking the Long Island Sound. It's a beautiful view if you're patient enough to peek through the overgrown trees and bushes that protect it.

Aside from the slightly obstructed view, there's not much else there. That is, except for what appeared to be a police officer relaxing in his cruiser as the warm seaside breeze tickled his skin. He looked at us, we looked at him, and we continued round the road.

As we pulled around the rotary, we both noticed a few signs that said "no stopping or standing." Hmm...were these signs actually legitimate? It didn't make any sense to say someone couldn't stop on a dead end street. And if someone wasn't supposed to stop there, why wasn't the road blocked off? Better yet, why wasn't the entire village gated? Perhaps the cop was only there to keep the peace and ensure there wasn't any horsing around happening in this oh-so-posh neighborhood. Rich people certainly like their safety, we said.

Thus, we reasoned ourselves into getting out of the car to take a photo.

Within seconds, the cop who seemed to have come to life and out of his mid-day nap pulled his cruiser around the bend and demanded Mel's license.

"How many signs do you see in this area that say no stopping??" he screamed, his fists clenched around the steering wheel. "Don't you know what that means? Didn't you see me sitting here?"

"Yes, we saw you as soon as we came in," I said.

"Well then that means you disrespected me! I'm issuing you a ticket," he screamed again, his eyes bulging out of his head.

The guy looked like a lunatic. It was almost as if someone had just let him out of an insane asylum and told him to go sit on a dead end street as penance. He acted as though he hadn't been in contact with other human beings in days and therefore didn't know how to speak rationally and respectfully. I was half expecting him to start communicating with the trees and birds--his only friends.

At this point, I noticed that the badge on his arm and the logo on his car, both of which said "Constable" (not cop). Was this guy even a legitimate police officer? If he wasn't holding Mel's license in his hand, I probably would have suggested to her that we get back in the car and drive out of this Stepford Wife-like place.

The guy seemed to revel in the fact that he had control over us. He took his sweet time writing down Mel's license plate number and all her personal information. Meanwhile, Mel started sobbing uncontrollably, trying to explain that we were in town for a funeral and that she just wanted to take a quick photo. Uh oh, this was going to turn ugly unless this guy showed us once ounce of respect.

Instead, he said nothing in return and was completely void of emotion and empathy.

Wait, this guy had to be a robot, I thought. Only robots would be this cruel. Somewhere inside his chest, there must be a computer chip that was permanently programed to say "Command: When in contact with other human beings, become the world's largest jerk! Take whatever measures you deem necessary (including disrespect and illegal detainment) to accomplish this task!"

Then, in the midst of my own increasing rage, it dawned on me. The whole reason we drove to Belle Terre was so we could admire the view and capture a memory. Why not do that while this goon finished writing the ticket? Up until that point, we'd been facing his patrol car. I turned around so my back was to him and suggested Mel do the same.

We stood there for a couple of minutes admiring the dark blue water and stunning view before the constable got out of his car, irritated that we had outsmarted him. He handed us a ticket for $75 and then waited for us to drive off.

After getting back to Rhode Island, I did a little research. Apparently, Belle Terre is notorious for issuing illegitimate traffic tickets. There was a class action lawsuit in which constables were cited for having gone beyond their duties in enforcing law. These constables aren't even trained as civil servants and they aren't supposed to carry weapons (even though they do). It's quite shocking actually. You can read more about the complaint here. You can read about the million dollar settlement here.

The experience surely left a bad taste in our mouths, but we tried to move on past it and enjoy our time in the area. Was the view from Belle Terre (ironic translation: beautiful earth) worth $75? Definitely not, in my opinion. And in the end, we probably won't be paying it anyway.