There’s a place for us…somewhere a place for us.

Shhh…Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting apawtments.

You’ll have to excuse the speech impediment humor, which is powiticawwy incowwect in the 21^st centuwy, but for the first few months of my seawch I was downwight be-Fudd-led.

Some of my readers noted a similar cluelessness after my last series installment, in which I ignorantly waged war on the American dream of home ownership, payable in 360 easy payment installments over 30 years. I realize that real estate is a proven pathway to fiscal stability, but sound investment advice doesn’t make for a very funny column.[1] For useful monetary guidance, turn to the financial section of this paper. If you’re reading this on zamblings.com, lick your finger and flip to another web page.[2]

The last time I looked for an apartment was in 1995, when the Internet was in Pull-Ups and Googling was still something that would make you go blind if you did it too much. With all of the real estate sites available today, I jumped at the opportunity to narrow my search in advance to a particular size, location and price range. Then I sat back down because surfing the ‘net while jumping is rather inconvenient.

Because my family and I would be moving out of state, we planned a no-holds-barred and no-bars-held scouting trip to as many places as we could see in person in just one week, living on fast food and gasoline fumes and foregoing any sightseeing or urination.

Bars-held-none.

Before we left, we put together a comprehensive list of more than 100 possibilities.

Upon arrival in North Carolina, we promptly burned through the list in four hours.

Forgive the hyperbole, but it quickly became evident that cramming a three-bedroom house into a three-bedroom apartment was going to be as difficult as, say, cramming a four-bedroom house into a four-bedroom apartment. Most properties were not prepared to accommodate our vast supply of heavy but worthless belongings without filling the Olympic-sized pool[3] by the clubhouse.

Speaking of amenities – which I later learned have nothing to do with praying – I was amazed by the available extras at these sprawling complexes, many of which gave guided tours in golf carts. I joked with one guide that we weren’t moving at all and were only in it for the complimentary cart rides. She laughed, but since we didn’t pick that place, who’s laughing now?[4]

Who’s laughing now.

I had only apartment-hunted once before, in Connecticut, where it was unheard of to find a community with a pool. In North Carolina, however, it was rare to find one that didn’t have a pool, a fitness center and a tennis court.[5]

These bonus items were very appealing, but every apartment, condo and “luxury living complex” we looked at was missing something significant, like a dining room, a third bedroom or an exterminator. Like most apartment hunters, I had a list of top criteria: low cost; cleanliness; and a roof launch pad featuring a fully fueled jet-powered escape pod equipped with a kegerator and the complete Arrested Development series on DVD. Failing that, I would settle for washer/dryer hookups.[6]

We were coming across a lot of horseshoes-and-hand-grenades places, but there was always something missing. While online realty sites were helpful, nothing compared to seeing a place in person.

“Convenient highway access.”

Several neighborhoods featured places with astonishing square footage, but getting there took a little GPS, a little Lewis and Clark, and a lot of gasoline. We’re not the type to be too far from civilization (in other words, Best Buy).

One area, which comprised a high percentage of our scouting list, featured homes that looked gorgeous online. However, the entire ZIP code fell by the wayside when we discovered that we were significantly under-armed in comparison to the other residents. I realized that maybe I would have been better off hunting apartments with a gun.

Significantly Under-Armoured.

I was getting punchy and beginning to take the phrase “apartment hunting” too literally. On the morning of day five, my wife found me in a tree stand outside the hotel, frazzled and covered in buck lure. She talked me down and convinced me to try one more website: Craig’s List.

I floundered, bleary-eyed and disappointed, through a batch of Craig’s List entries, many of which I couldn’t even remember if I’d visited. Did we tour Overwood Crest? Cresterwind Grove? Crustygrave Woods? The names were all blending together like American Chinese restaurants, which seem to be named at random from a group of about 11 English words.

We nearly skipped one place because it was so new it wasn’t even on the map. Our litter-strewn mini-van was begging for mercy, but the combination of square footage and price demanded a look. When we finally found the street and followed the property manager across the threshold, our weary stares lifted to wide-eyed optimism.

My wife spun in the oversized kitchen, bathed in beautiful natural light, and my sons bounded up the stairs, followed closely by their Dad. Each of us navigated instinctively to our respective rooms. The boys were spread out comfortably on the floor, as if preparing to make carpet angels, when my wife joined us. We exchanged no words – 10 years of marriage called only for a brief look that said, “I hope this unit’s available.”

The property manager, the friendliest of the many professionals we had spoken to that week, waited patiently out on the sidewalk as we soaked in the atmosphere. As hard as we tried to hide our excitement, perhaps she knew even before we did that we were home. We signed the lease at 5 p.m. that day.

Somehow, on the final day of our trip, we managed to find the one place in the whole county without a gym, a tennis court or a swimming pool. But the neighborhood was pleasant, the schools seemed nice and there was plenty of shopping nearby with a multitude of restaurants. I highly recommend the Crab Rangoon at Great China Wall of Golden Dragon Emerald Town.

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE