it gets great light, but what about the machetes?

I have been knee-deep in an apartment search for the past few weeks. There is nothing like the New York rental search, in fact I think it's worthy of a Christopher Guest-esque skewering, or a series of short stories or essays, best in the tone of David Sedaris or Lorrie Moore. It is, frankly, a nightmare.

I saw a lot along the way, including a loft in an old textile factory in Williamsburg that is (still!) zoned commercial, a bedroom even smaller than my current dwelling on the LES and a carriage house off the Bedford stop with roommates who did not speak to each other (or in English). I've ended up through the looking glass in a dream townhouse in Park Slope with a good friend, so I'm more than happy. I'm also armed with stories to tell.

I looked at a number of places in South Williamsburg, on the other side of the bridge from the trendy part, off the Hewes and Marcy stops on the JMZ. It's up-and-coming, I think, on account of all the young people moving in and looking for roommates. I was struck, both of the times I visited the area over the past week, on the notable police presence. I thought it odd, but then, I live in the played out East Village where the only emergencies on the corner are NYU girls who break a nail or have trouble lighting their Parliaments.

It turns out something serious was afoot. I was lucky, it seems, that I wasn't slashed by machete-wielding gang members. I mean, to get slashed or held at knife point is one thing, but a machete?

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