In Which I Clarify the Former Digs.

I had my misgivings when walking up six flights of unlit stairs down to the very last door at the corner, a door that groaned ominously when I nudged it open. It really looked strange, a door set into the shadowy recesses of a frame of bricks at least a foot deep. It made one imagine a dark Italian dungeon with lots of bats and maroon velvet. But in actuality, the apartment looked incredibly gorgeous when I first opened the door: hardwood floors, windows, the exposed brick, and the crazy lime-green walls; it's like someone was so excited about designing an apartment that they smashed together a European sensibility with the Jetsons. (Actually, this might have some validity to it; the landlord is an architecture professor, and I suspect he designs interiors on the side). The previous places I had looked at were no contest; to top it off, this place was going for 250 USD, at least 50 dollars cheaper than anything I had looked at so far.

But...the water pressure was awful, and most days there wasn't enough water to wash the dishes, let alone take a shower. Through some system I could never understand, the water was mysteriously ''pumped'' by the old people guarding the gate and would take anywhere from days to hours to appear from the faucet. Also, the bathroom, situated in the CENTER of the apartment, was very smelly. Horribly, awfully dank and smelly, even though it had cheery blue tiles. Some days I'd walk in and be hit with an overpowering wave of mildewy fumes. Finally, the gates to the building were locked at 10 p.m. To enter afterwards meant a lot of timid clanging at the gate, only to escalate into full out yelling to wake up the sleeping security guard. Or more accurately, the sleeping old person who you felt horrible for waking at this ungodly hour because they're quite old, and they look like they shouldn't be doing anything but sleeping in their blue and white striped pajamas and you promise them many, many times that this will be the last time you wake them up.

Needless to say, there were many times when I felt guilty about disturbing the sleep of someone who looks like my grandfather, especially when they wear matching pajamas.

Now the house I live in is no where near as nicely appointed; slight grungy and with disturbing surprises in laquered cabinets, and not a single piece of furniture that yields to the touch (besides beds). But there's freely available water and only one smelly bathroom, and it's far away in the tv room and we keep that door closed all the time.