Renter’s blues

One man’s search for an affordable place to live in San Luis Obispo

 Editors note: With only a small percentage of us being able to afford to buy a house in San Luis Obispo, a majority of us are left to wander the Central Coast as renters. But with rising housing costs, and fewer rentals to chose from, the task of finding an affordable place to call home is a daunting one. As New Times continues to focus on housing and growth in San Luis Obispo and its environs, we asked one rental seeker to keep a journal for us telling us about his experiences. This is his story:

BY BRAD BOCA

June 1: With my amateur cycling career in Belgium grinding to an early halt, I'm happily back in SLO. I’ve got my old job back, now all I need is a place to live.

I got lucky last year, when I first moved here. Well, sort of lucky. I found a studio for only $500. Unfortunately, my ignorance of San Luis Obispo neighborhoods blindsided me as I found myself living in a student neighborhood on Stenner Street. I rapidly found myself wishing I did not live near students, or at least not be surrounded by them.

This time, I’m going to do it right. The word on the street is, don’t even bother with the want ads. All the real deals are word of mouth. Okay, then. I’m ready to start listening.

June 3: Nothing yet, but who’s worried? Some friends just offered me their guest room/TV room/office to crash in until I find a place. It’s a gorgeous house in Pismo Beach, so I’m stoked. Surely I’ll be out by the end of the month.

I’m no stranger to the evils of house hunting in a college town. I did, after all, go to UCSB, which shares similar problems with Cal Poly: Both schools let in far more students than they have housing for, and seem content to ignore or at best make symbolic gestures to address the problem. (Like building housing for the 800 extra students from last year, then letting 800 more in.)

My last residence in Santa Barbara was a one-bedroom apartment for $900 that I shared with my girlfriend, another roommate, and our dog. We had a really groovy bunk bed. When we gave our 30-day notice, we showed the place to a visiting professor from Harvard. She loved it–but she couldn’t afford the rent.

I tell you, if I was an administrator at Cal Poly or UCSB, I'd be in the real estate business.

June 10: Nothing yet, but I’m still not worried. Everyday I ask around about places to live. Everyday, I’m told the market is tight, there just isn’t much. I’m perusing the want ads, but not too closely.

I think I’m an unlikely victim of San Luis's housing crisis. I’d make a great tenant: I’m 25 years old, employed full-time in a (semi?) professional job for a local bicycle component company. My boss even raised my wage to $9 an hour–with opportunities to advance.

I seek somewhere I can afford, preferably near downtown, so I can ride my bike to work. I have a good rental history, a stable job, and don’t want to leave San Luis for the Bay Area, L.A., or anywhere else. It feels like home here. Now, if I could only find one…

June 23: Still nothing. I’m starting to get just slightly nervous. By now, I’m getting that the rental market is really, really, tight. But the focus seems to be on college students who can't find housing. If access to a college education was a formidable barrier for many people before, access to housing in a college town seems to be the latest obstacle.

For those of you already nested, that's great. Every September there will be a fresh influx of those ready and willing to serve food, make your latté, ring up your sale at the Gap, and pour your drink. Meanwhile, their parents, or perhaps a nice student loan, helps them pay for the apartment or room I can’t afford. Those less lucky will double, even triple up in a room.

But what about those in my position–lucky enough to have a job, but who doesn’t have deep-pocketed parents, loans (I’m paying mine off now, thanks), or who are unwilling to live three deep in a room?

July 3: Still living in the guest room in Pismo, still scanning the classified ads on a daily basis for rentals. It’s a depressing way to begin your day. Nothing like seeing one-bedroom apartments for $750 a month. I notice the words "quaint," "cute," and "small" often appear in these ads.

At first I wasn’t even calling these ads, but I’ve begun to do so, madly doing math to figure out how I could live on the $300 or so I’d have left each month.

I meet some friends at Frog and Peach to discuss the impending holiday. We order a round to take to the patio, all the while discussing my current housing search. The bartender's ears perk up at the word "housing."

"Hey, do you guys know of anyplace available for rent? I've been looking for months and I just can't find anything." I offer some sort of symbolic sympathetic gesture. While I understand where he's coming from, I wouldn't tell him anything even if I knew. Why sabotage my own chances?

July 13: I am constantly peppered with advice about my search. Said one well-meaning friend, "You should spend the first hour of every morning scouring the papers and calling all the ads."

I already do that, and it takes about seven minutes, not an hour.

And while I get the occasional odd observation (like the person who told me the whole housing crisis in California was caused by "all the immigrants"), most of them are comfortably ignorant. Don't they read the newspaper?

July 15: I find a "roommate wanted" ad that is reasonably priced at $425 a month plus utilities–an 8 by 10 room with a loft for the bed. I call immediately to check it out.

"Yeah, are you a student?" asked one of the two very young guys. "No, I'm not. I graduated a year ago," I say.

"Oh, well, we're really looking for students only," he replied.

This may be the first time I’ve wished to be a student again.

July 19: Desperation sets in. I still feel welcome in Pismo, despite my lengthy stay on the couch and the general internal feeling that I am somehow inadequate as a potential tenant or housemate. Am I projecting? I know that somewhere out there is a landlord waiting to get my monthly check in the mail, someone who will allow me to fulfill my responsibility to our economic system. Maybe my tax refund from W. can go towards my move-in deposit!

But it’s starting to get grim. Internal questions assail the worrywart in me. What if I can't find anything? Where will I go? Where in California can I move to that I can escape this housing crisis, if only temporarily?

When I first came back from Europe, I figured I could always move in with my parents. But while I was gone, they fled to a more affordable sub-sub-suburb outside of Sacramento, one that is restricted to the 55 and over crowd. Ouch.

Some good news, though: My boss, aware of my situation, raised my wage to $10 an hour.

July 27: Stopping in Linnaea's for an after-work iced coffee, I talk to a friend behind the counter. She bears the unfortunate news that not only did her landlord raise her rent from $475 to $550, but informed her she must rid herself of her cat in order to stay.

Sacrificing her beloved kitty is not something she is prepared to do, and the raised rent is a little much, so she plans to give notice.

Since her studio is amazingly cute (if extremely tiny) and located right on Garden Street, I get her landlord's digits. Things are looking up! I can almost afford $550, especially now that I’ve gotten a raise. I mean, it’s still practically half a month’s salary, but at this point, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to do better.

July 30: It’s been a weekend of glorious anticipation, the kind where you know the answer to your problems is visible on the horizon.

My friend’s soon-to-be-ex landlord is a CPA. I never talk to him, only his secretary. He must be a busy guy, raking in all that rental cash. The secretary tries to break the news to me gently.

"Yes, well, the rent has been raised a little bit from what the previous tenant paid, to $625." Ye gods! I think, as my heart rises in my throat.

"She told me yesterday the rent has just been raised to $550," I reply, my heart now sinking into my gut.

"Yes, but that's for the, uh, existing tenant. As a new one we would be asking for just a little bit more each month."

I ask about double occupancy, even though the place is the size of a refrigerator box. No dice. While $550 was a stretch, $625 is out of the question.

What is it? Just plain greed to raise the rent $150 on a cute yet beaten-up studio apartment because the market will bear it? Greed is ugly. A pox on you, greedy landlord!

July 31: One of the engineers at work, a recent Poly grad, clues me into the Cal Poly housing website. He also tells me that when he moves next month, his room won’t be available for rent, since the guys living illegally in the shed behind the house will simply move into the main house.

I check out the website, and find more ads than I’ve seen in a while. I worry if it’s only for students, and what the reaction will be if I call about an ad. Will Poly come after me? Let Warren Baker try. At this point I am ruthless.

As I diligently keep track of my progress for New Times, I am struck by something: most people get into the newspaper because they do something extraordinary, or merely newsworthy.

Not me. I’ll be in because of my failure to do something, something essential. I can't find an affordable place to rent. Its been eight weeks now. No landlord to mail a monthly check, no place to call home, no reason to use those cute little "Mover's Guides" you get at the post office. My home phone is my cell phone and my mailing address is a P.O. box.

August 1: Finally, a prospect: I find an ad for a "cute two-bedroom downtown to share" with a professional woman for only $450 a month plus utilities. I immediately compose a lengthy email about myself, and send it. I feel like I’m writing a personal ad, but I’m hoping it will make a better impression than one of the 50 messages already on her answering machine. (I called, but by noon the beep on her machine was about two minutes long.)

She emails me back, and we agree to meet. My world is no longer cold and without hope.

August 2: I make my way to her house. It’s a charming old place set on a hill a few blocks off Marsh Street. There’s a nice porch out front where a woman is smoking a Marlboro Light and waiting for me. The place is great, and we get along. We talk for an hour, about what we’re looking for in a roommate, and in a living situation, and we agree on many points. It’s looking good on my part, but I’m the first prospect she’s interviewed, so she tells me she’ll get back to me.

August 6: I scour classifieds every day this week and there’s nothing. Zilch, nada, zip. Sure, there’s an occasional "house to share," but they’re all starting at $1,000. I haven’t heard back from my one great prospect so far. I resolve to email her again, but worry about being perceived as a pest.

August 7: I email her again and she responds positively. "I’ve met an ungodly amount of people, but you’re still in the running," she emails. "I’d like to meet with you again." I’m elated, but anxious about our next meeting.

August 9: I meet with the woman I hope to become housemates with again. She tells me again how many people she’s had come through the house–she’s even gotten a date out of it, she admits. Oh, to be in the power position.

We spend another hour talking. She tells me that it’s between me and someone else. "Honestly, I could go either way. I’m thinking about flipping a coin, it’s so close." She tells me she’s going to decide tomorrow. The winner will get a phone call, the loser an email.

August 10: It’s Friday, and my cousin is getting married tomorrow in the Bay Area. I spend the first part of my day wrapping up loose ends at the shop, dreading that the "new email" icon will pop up. No news is good news, I tell myself.

I leave at noon to drive north. My cell phone sits conspicuously silent on my dashboard. I will it to ring.

It does.

"Did she call yet?" asks a friend.

It rings again. "Honey, are you on your way up yet?" asks my mother. I get her off quickly so the line will be free.

The phone doesn’t ring again all day.

August 13: Today’s housing ads are slim. To wit: share a rental for $825 plus utilities. The ad stipulates, "No smoking. No pets. No overnight guests. No drugs. No drinking. Microwave cooking only." No fun.

Now many of the ads are not for places to rent, but people advertising themselves as good roommates. One wrote he is looking for a room when he moves to San Luis to start school–in February 2002. Another wrote, "Wow! This looking for a place to live thing is like some sort of popularity contest!"

Then, a breakthrough: A friend lets me know that an acquaintance is considering renting out his spare bedroom. Not only that, he’s headed out of town for a month, and will allow me to stay there. If we can work it out, it could become permanent.

At this point I’m ready for just about anything, if it’s affordable. I pick up my stuff from Pismo and head over there.

August 14: I am puzzled when I first walk into my new temporary digs. It’s pretty obvious the place is not a two-bedroom, but a tiny one bedroom. No way could two people live here. I view it as a friend doing me a favor, and keep on looking.

August 15: I find an ad on the Cal Poly site for a room. Its $600 a month plus utilities. Not really affordable, but if I live on peanut butter and eliminate my social life, I can do it. I call and arrange to view it. It’s a giant room in a house with an engaged couple who are also cyclists, former Cal Poly students who are staying in the area. They seem like good housemates, but the rent is boggling. I tell them I like the place. They, of course, have about a million other people who want to look at it.

August 16: I take a break to meet some friends at McCarthy’s. When I walk in the door, a friend smiles at me, her eyes twinkling madly, and throws a small, crumpled up piece of paper at me. It’s a business card from one of the bartenders, who has a room available in his house. He hates the interview thing, he’s just told my friend, and just wants to find someone mellow. That’s me! I’m mellow!

The room is five blocks away, $450 a month plus utilities and available now. He tells me I seem all right, and to come by and see it tomorrow. SCORE!

August 17: We meet at his place. It’s big, two stories, with two living rooms, a garage, a lovely backyard and a rooftop deck. My room overlooks the backyard. It is excellent. It’s the largest place I’ve seen by far, large enough to hold any one of those overpriced one-bedrooms. I fill out an application and cross my fingers while the property manager completes a credit check.

August 20: I can hardly believe it. I’m in. I can move in tomorrow. My search is finally over. I can now count myself among the ranks of the housed. And through word of mouth, after all. Who’d a thunk it?

For all those of you still out there, take heart. And remember–patience is a virtue. Æ

Free-lancer Brad Boca invites you to his new pad to check out his etchings.