Entering the San Francisco rental market as a non-millionaire is like going to prom with headgear. It’s gonna be hard to get a date. You’re subject to silent rejection, being stood up, and – worst of all – open houses.
If you’re hoping to pay under $1,500 for a room, everyone ever is in competition with you. Each ad gets hundreds of emails offering love, drugs, hookers – whatever it takes to move in with some random twentysomething hipsters. And that’s just a room; an entire apartment is even more of a unicorn in the mist.
The median rent for a one-bedroom apartment currently stands at around $3,100. Rental prices in the Mission District have increased by 41% since 2011.
Moving from Austin, Texas, I was ill prepared for the intense demoralization that accompanies finding a place to sleep. In Austin, I had the pick of the crop, interviewing at countless places until I found the perfect roommates and home. I was like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks paid the bears $475 a month. And then I moved to San Francisco.
Friends warned me with phrases like “Be patient,” “The market is competitive,” and “You’re totally fucked.”
But I didn’t listen. “Serendipity is the hallmark of my life,” I thought. “Watch, this will be simple.”
Little did I know what I was up against. On one side were the cool kids with their blasé rental ads featuring low-fi Instagram pics. Plaid and glasses all the way. On the other were masochistic landlords with (all too real) Craigslist posts like this gem: “No guests who are not discussed priorly and no alcohol, party, pets, or other things that will be considered not good for getting along with each other, such as dancing, singing loudly, etc. We don’t do any of those things.” Was this some Footloose nightmare?
The absolute craziest encounter was always, without a doubt, the dreaded open house. With hundreds of emails pouring in for one affordable room comes an insane imbalance of power. Instead of having one-on-one interviews (like civilized humans), the current roommates hold open houses, which are essentially cattle calls akin to an audition for The Bachelor.
Even worse than the overpriced, unappealing options available to a girl of my means was the fact that barely 1 in 25 of my (oh so delightfully crafted!) emails would even garner a reply.
“No cut-and-paste responses,” the housemate posts would demand. “Tell us what it’s like to live with you in a series of hip-hop haikus.”
I’d hammer out hundreds of custom emails a week.
When a rare response would arrive, my heart would leap. I’d think to myself, “This is it!” The months of searching are over. I would put aside all prior evidence that I was a baby seal and that house hunting was my cruel clubber. I would put on my most fabulous yet understated “You’re gonna love me” ensemble and head out, only to find yet another instance of the following:
—A windowless, closet-less shoebox at an astronomical price
—An entitled, agoraphobic, alcoholic master tenant
—Seriously questionable home decor (stripper pole, anyone?)
—A wonderful house with sweet people who amazingly didn’t choose me
Despite all these disheartening encounters, the absolute craziest was always, without a doubt, the dreaded open house. With hundreds of emails pouring in for one affordable room comes an insane imbalance of power. Instead of having one-on-one interviews (like civilized humans), the current roommates hold open houses, which are essentially cattle calls akin to an audition for The Bachelor.
In my naiveté, I thought they would be fun and said to myself, “Hey, I’m new in town, I’ll meet some nice people!” Fun quickly spiraled into terror. People brought GIFTS to these events. They brought home-baked goods, beer, and promises of 72 virgins. This was beyond my pay grade in so many ways.
Sometimes it was a free-for-all. “Just drop by sometime between 6 p.m. and 10 p.m.,” the email would read. “We’re excited to meet you!”
“Oh man,” I’d think. “I sure am excited to meet them too!”
But instead of getting a warm reception by housemates eager to meet darling ol’ me, I’d often walk up into a flat in full-fledged party mode, with dozens of twenty- and thirty-somethings mingling and drinking PBR, the entire place packed like Jake Ryan’s after the dance in Sixteen Candles. I often loved these colorful, spacious, plant-filled Mission flats. Unfortunately, I often could not figure out who the fuck the roommates were. Once I chatted up some random on a couch for 20 minutes, with people all around us jostling for space. The poor lady probably thought I lived there too. I never had the tenacity to power through and party all night, earning my right to a callback.
Once I chatted up some random on a couch for 20 minutes, with people all around us jostling for space. The poor lady probably thought I lived there too. The more “intimate” open houses would be scheduled in stages, like Broadway dance auditions. “Come in the 12:30 p.m.–1:00 p.m. slot,” the email would read. “We’re looking forward to seeing you!”
The more “intimate” open houses would be scheduled in stages, like Broadway dance auditions. “Come in the 12:30 p.m.–1:00 p.m. slot,” the email would read. “We’re looking forward to seeing you!”
“Oh boy,” I’d think. “I’m definitely getting a good vibe from this one!”
Foolishly, I’d assume my designated time slot meant a solo audition. But sadly, no. In the cruel and unusual world in which open houses are a common practice, a time slot is not an invitation to get to know people you might live with but rather an invitation to tour the place with six to eight other hungry ladies all hoping to land the same room. This was Tanya Harding–esque competition. Supply-and-demand is a motherfucker.
The creepy thing about walking through a place you may or may not actually like but are desperate to have is that you are touring the house with a half dozen variations of yourself. Clearly, the roomies were looking for someone like me. Lives healthily, loves reading, knows how to wash dishes, laughs, blah, blah, blah. I fit whatever general model they were after, so they invited not only me but every version of me who responded to their ad.
I would walk up a Noe Valley side street, a trail of young women in printed scarves all heading toward the same door. Inside the living room (full of IKEA furniture and funky vintage finds) would be a handful of girls frighteningly similar to me in education, interests, and lifestyle. Even my goddamn personal style would be under siege. Stop rockin’ my look, you room-stealing wenches!
We would all be trying not to ooze aggressive desperation. In the frenzy for survival, these once-laughing, yoga-loving, liberal ladies would become stealthy and vicious. The more seasoned open-house vets would be cornering the roommates, throwing down the most charming, sparkly, witty version of themselves.
“Oh, you have a garden! I just loooove to refurbish urban spaces to save the world. I grow organic kale, harvest sea kelp, and cook three meals a day for my roomies!”
“I see you paint. I do the wigs and makeup for the San Francisco Ballet! Yes, I love to lend out my dress-up stuff, and yes, I am a professional dancer and have free passes to every performance ever for you, my roommate.”
I would be like, “Um, I’m underemployed and eat a lot of oatmeal.”
I’d like to say I conducted myself well, but this is not true. After a few months of couch surfing, I realized it was either sink or swim. I did some shameful things. I flirted with a man who may have never been on a date in his life. I endured being flirted with by creepers. I said I didn’t care if there were piles of dirty dishes in the sink. I lied about not minding nightly smoke-outs in living rooms. I sized up competition and attempted to out-awkward them into leaving first. I laughed at jokes I would hate in real life, if I didn’t have to compromise my very soul to find a home. Ohhh, I started to feel dirty.
The insane part is that half the time, I didn’t even know what I was competing for. It became such a feat to get my foot in the door and seem wonderful and beat out that girl in the acid-wash jeans that I barely had a chance to consider if I wanted to live with the people who did live there. The trouble is, in San Francisco, you kind of don’t have the luxury of choice.
One day I finally found a home the way everyone does in SF: through a friend. I had just rung the doorbell to a flat, and the girl buzzed down with her best, bitchiest, socialite voice, saying, “You’re in the 5:15 slot? I’m not going to even bother, because I rented it to the girl ahead of you.”
I walked to my car, about to give up and move to Wichita when, at that very moment, an old friend called and said the magic words: “Are you still looking for a place?” And with that, I was saved.