Sunday, October 6, 2013

This Is Why I Can't Have Nice Things

I stood outside my friend Julia’s vacant apartment midday on a Friday, holding a stack of freshly ironed dress clothes & surrounded by luggage, trying to figure out how the gate lock worked. After a few minutes of severe fumbling - the key wouldn't even turn - I realized I hadn't double-checked the apartment number with her. Suddenly, a terrible thought barreled into my consciousness: "Is this the right apartment? AM I BREAKING INTO SOMEONE ELSE'S HOME?"

As it turns out, I was at the right apartment, which was a relief both for my ego & my criminal record. But as it also turns out, the right apartment was much swankier than any apartment where I've ever lived or stayed. That first experience, in which I briefly felt like a fancy hobo (see inset), really set the tone for the rest of my stay, which looked a little bit like this.
  • The apartment is a beautiful English basement right on Logan Circle, with its own entrance, so the entrance is covered by a gated door for added security. The gate’s a little tough to unlock, though (see above), & more than once, I struggled to enter & exit, tugging & pulling & muttering like a crazy person. Perhaps my least suave moment, though, came when I couldn’t get the gate open from the inside (as in, I could not leave the apartment), so I asked the guy delivering my Thai food to just pass it through the bars to me. As though I were imprisoned. Oh, just pass me my food through this wrought-iron gate like I’m a felon & my dinner is contraband, sir, thanks.
  • For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the light in the bedroom closet. I didn’t even remember turning it on! And yet there it was, on, bright, mocking me. I left it on for an entire 24 hours (sorry, Julia) before deciding, “Oh! I can at least close the closet door while I sleep to try to block it out.” As it turns out, the two are connected: The light turns off when you close the door. I found that out, um, when I closed the door. So.
  • The massive shower, which is bigger than my entire bathroom, doubles as a steam room with just the push of a button. Eager to relax (is that an oxymoron?), I pushed the button & sad, naked & expectant, on the wooden bench that lined one wall. Anyway, after about 10 minutes of sitting there, nothing had happened, & I was just... a weirdo sitting, naked & expectant, in the shower. (I know, you’re welcome for those visuals.) A text to my friend told me I had to wait a little longer for it to steam up - & confirmed that I didn’t actually need to sit in there waiting for it to happen.
I think it’s safe to say that I’ll never be royal.
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