A Tale of Two Brokers

So the place in which we currently reside is a temporary thing until we find something more permanent. We could potentially live here, but the price quoted by the broker is too expensive. Thus, we're on the market.

I met with said broker yesterday (Jan. 11) to settle our deposit for this place. Before proceeding, let me recount our experience with an apartment broker in New York. Anne and I had decided to move out of the dorms at the New School (where we spent one thrilling semester, fell in love, etc.) and into a Real New York Apartment. Neither of us being from New York, and only having lived there a couple months, we had no idea what we were doing or getting ourselves into. So thanks to craigslist (thanks craigslist), we end up dealing with this broker. Some guy named "Mark." Let me give away the ending by saying that everything worked out fine. Sort of. (For those of you who know, our experience at this apartment end very very badly, but not because of Mark. Or at least I don't think so... For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, sorry, some other time perhaps).

The first clue should have been (and I should say now would have been) when "Mark" asked us to meet him on the corner of Delancy Street (Lower East Side, a perfectly fine part of the neighborhood), in front the MacDonald's, with $500 cash. Not knowing any better, we do. After the fact and some reflection, we asked ourselves the following question: "What the H$%l did we just do? We gave a total stranger, who claims to be a "broker," $500!! CASH!!" Welcome reality. Anybody want to buy the Brooklyn Bridge? I gotta great deal. Can't go wrong. Keith: "Me! me!," etc.

OK. Whatever. Mark really is a broker and shows us the apartment. We like it and decide to take the place. Now brokers in New York charge an astronomical amount of money for doing what you can easily do yourself, that is, meet the damn landlord, pay the deposit and get the keys. They're parasites who feed off the lives of the stupid and naive, see Keith, about 2004. I don't remember the percentage of Mark's brokerage fee, but it was WAY more than he earned in his service to us. I mean a real Sh%&-ton of $$. Needless to say, I dragged my feet BIG TIME paying him off since, well, he didn't really do anything and after we were moved into the apartment, there was really nothing he could do about it. If Keith 2010 had been there, he would have told Keith 2004 to forget about it. Change your cell phone number so the guy can't contact you and let him eat his. Keith 2004, however, not so bright. The moral of the story is that I DISLIKE real estate brokers and generally consider them to be the scum of the earth. If you're a real estate broker and you're reading this, that means YOU.

Enter Maastricht. So I go see this guy yesterday, uh, "Laurent," to whom, by the way, we have yet to give a single shiny dime (or Euro for that matter). I go to settle up our deposit on this place, figuring he's getting worked up about it (just assuming he's getting worked up about it because that's what would happen in NY). So he wants to know how long we think we'll be staying. I don't know. We go over the numbers for the place, the price of which changes depending on how long you stay. The longer you stay, the cheaper it is per day, etc. I let him know our circumstances, price ranges, that kind of thing. He says he has one really crappy apartment (he went out of his way to emphasize how bad this apartment is; apparently the kitchen and living room are the same room...) that he can show me on Wed. and says he'll look for some other places to show me in the mean time.

He asks me if I have a phone. Well, (evil) Verizon doesn't exist in the Netherlands, so the answer is no, I don't. Laurent: "Wait a second. I'll be back." I guess he goes to take a call or something, which he probably did about five times during our twenty-minute conversation. Whatever. It's the guy's job. He comes back and hands me a CELL PHONE. Laurent: "Here. Take this. I don't need it any more." (Laurent is sporting a brand new iPhone; the phone he's giving me is an old motorola or something. but still). Keith: ???? Laurent: "You pay per minute." He proceeds to crack open the phone and show me the chip I need to buy to minutes on this thang., etc. Keith, incredulous: "So you're just GIVING ME a cell phone??" Laurent, unsure what the BFD is: "Sure. Like I said, I don't need it any more." (We had also discussed the possibility of another, functional hotplate. [For the significance of the hotplate for the Netherlands, see a different, unwritten entry]). Anyway. I ask him about the deposit. Laurent: "Don't worry about it." So, our biness finished, I'm off with my hotplate (which turns out to be even more dangerous than one I was attempting to replace, but hey, you can't win 'em all) and my cell phone, gratis Laurent.

Of course I have yet to track down the appropriate store where to purchase said chip for said cell phone. I know it exists, somewhere in the labyrinth that is the Maastricht shopping district, which happens to coincide with the entire city limits, by all accounts. I've passed one on my wanderings, I'm sure, but when I went to actually find the place, it was, well somewhere else, I guess. So currently our free cell phone, that some guy just gave to us, is little more than a conversation piece. I'm sure this will be rectified in the not-too-distant future, especially since we'll need it to find another place. Probably not via Laurent. Sorry Laurent. Maybe next time.