According to of 1,000 people across America, 67% of people say that a nice apartment would make them more interested in a romantic partner, while 37% say a rude roommate is a deal breaker. Except for, maybe, in New York City, where a killer apartment can substitute for lack of chemistry and an intolerable living situation can almost be romantic when it's the abode of a scruffily bearded Brooklyn hipster.
Over on ELLE.com, Anna Davies shares her own "bizarre, unfortunate anecdotes" of what happens when love meets the weird world of New York City real estate:
Let's Get Loud
I was dating an amazing guy. The only issue? He had chickens in his Brooklyn backyard that woke me up every single morning. I asked him to stay at my place, but he had a dog who needed to be walked, so it didn't make sense for him. Besides, he explained that after awhile I'd get used to the sounds of the chickens. He barely heard them. I don't know what he was talking about, because even with earplugs, all I could hear was pre-dawn squawking, which by the way is far more annoying than any truck backing up or people screaming on the sidewalk. I tried to make it work, but after my fifth day nearly falling asleep at my desk at work, I had to break it off.
Making Love Last
My sublet was running out and I had two weeks before I could move into my real apartment. I felt guilty, but I absolutely tried to force a relationship with the guy I was dating, even though I wasn't all that into him. What I was into was his gorgeous Williamsburg loft. By the time the month was over, I had invited myself to live in his place for the two weeks between apartments. And once I'd moved to my new Upper West Side pad? I blamed the annoyingly long commute as the reason it would never work out.
I dated a dude who lived with his female cousin. I didn't think that was weird, since it was a big apartment that was owned by one of their relatives. But one day early in the relationship, when I was sitting in the kitchen, my therapist walked into the apartment. Turns out, in one of those absurd plot twists that would work in a romantic comedy but is just tragic in real life: My therapist was his cousin. They had different last names and it had never come up, because why would it? I ended up breaking up with both of them.
This piece originally appeared on