I would say the title of the post is the pearl of wisdom I could share after well upon 4 years of very varied rental situations (most of them untenable… or rather untenantable…?)
Bright readers (that means all of you dears, of course!) will have noticed my disappearance from this blog, and attributed it to its rightful cause – apartment hunting, not plane malfunctions. But it wasn’t so awful! I found a place! And that after only a few weeks/almost 2 months of constant monitoring of craigslist ads, calling unresponsive telephone numbers, and writing peppy emails to prospective landlords/roommates. I was lucky, although I do credit my rather thorough and methodical process to apartment hunting. I cater each email to the language of the ad (pretty much like catering resumes to a specific job company and posting, another skill I have carefully crafted over the years) but have not yet stooped so low as to answer ads posted by people who “Want Our New Roommate To Be Our Best Friend!” and “Reply to this ad answering three questions: Who was your favorite Disney character, Why you think you are the most awesome roommate ever, and what was your nickname in kindergarten”. I wouldn’t want to live with those people anyway. (Although I did once involuntarily end up at an ‘audition’ for a room in a hippy-commune-controlled household, where I was supposed to prove how well I would get along with the 9 other inhabitants and how my bath schedule wouldn’t conflict with theirs, while other competitors munched peanuts desperately, batted eyelashes, and tried ever-so-hard to be Le Perfect Roommate. I didn’t.)
The place I currently am living in was something like a spot of luck. Or so I thought until last week… but I am getting ahead of myself. I almost skipped the appointment to look at the room I am now typing in. It was Friday night, after a long week at work (the first weeks each seemed be composed of 400 hours, although I know that is impossible), and I didn’t think I would have any luck anyway. But the apartment was located on my way back home from work so I knew I would have pangs of conscience all weekend were I to skip it.
In the lobby, I was met by the girl who was looking to rent out the master bedroom, and she took me directly to the basement level to show me… yes, the indoor pool. It was huge, it was beautiful, it was empty, and I was instantly smitten. The smell of warm chlorine gave me a surge of endorphins.
At least, that is what I blame for what happened next, and my addled and suspended judgment which resulted in my current predicament. The room turned out to be lovely – my own bathroom, walk-in closet, linen closet, and sunny view. The apartment was also lovely, spacious, well-lit, and quiet. The roommates were quiet, respectful, but friendly.
So where did things go wrong? Ah. Things didn’t actually go wrong until I moved in, heaved a sigh of relief, attempted to put my suitcases one inside another like Russian matryoshka dolls, and set out to do things that I had neglected in my search for my little nest. Fun things. Like meeting people, signing up for Toastmasters and Internations, staying for wine-tasting at work, reading books, and doing my French taxes.
Then reality crashed onto my head. I like to think that my current problems with the apartment lease really aren’t my fault, and are rather the fault of one roommate who deserted the flat while I was away for a few days, handed her notice in without telling anyone, and got all the new roommates into a royal mess.
But I won’t explain everything, because then you might think that I wasn’t paying enough attention and that I was responsible at least in part, and I really can’t deal with universal condemnation right now. Not when I have to move out again in three weeks.
Just wish me luck. I always need it.