I'd
offer what he believed were the three best things in the
world but there may be children reading and I still haven't
figured out how to do his number three just yet without
going to jail so I'll hold out on that for the moment.
In
any event, having lived in the one house in Sydney's suburb
of Annandale for the fast four years or so, I'd truly
forgotten how miserable moving and house hunting could
be. While I'm here in the United States on something of
a one-year sabbatical and thus this is an essentially
fun, new experience for me, and while the only things
in my possession I need to 'move' are two suitcases, it's
still a---------------------------------------------------------------
drag looking for a place no matter where you are.
For
the past three days I've been poring through the classifieds
section of the Bangor Daily News here in Bangor, Maine
and making appointment after appointment to see apartments
or small homes. After weeks of research into the area
and a preliminary visit a few weeks ago I was pretty much
as organised and ready to go as you could be. I set a
budget limit (not willing to pay more than U.S $800 per
month), I had my preferences finalised (heat and hot water
utility costs to be included in the rental cost, washing
machine on the premises would be good, somewhere near
a park or other greenery/'serenity' an added plus), and
I knew what size place I needed (any bigger than a two
bedroom place would be unnecessary' I just need a nice
space to sleep and write). You'd think with that kind
of checklist it'd be easy, right?
Sadly,
even for a small town like Bangor, there's a plentiful
supply of apartment listings to get through, and even
as this is a sm-all town in population, geographically
it's quite large. You can easily kill a whole afternoon
driving between apartments from one side of town to the
other and only see four different places... Add to this
logistical hassle the fact that I'm good at completely
second'guessing myself. For every perfectly fine apartment
or duplex I've seen I'm still annoyingly stupid enough
to keep thinking the next place might be that much better,
or that indeed the 'perfect' place is really just another
listing away.
And
then there's the standard miseries of any house-hunting
mission the textbook pitfalls that go with the territory.
In the first instance I've seen far too many places
that had a specific price advertised in the newspaper
per month for rent, only to discover upon arrival that
it's actually more expensive and the newspaper had contained
a 'misprint'. Scam, scam, scam! Next, there's visits
to the kind of dumps that only racoons and skunks would
consider inhabiting, and even then that's a stretch'
I've been to plenty of those types of places this weekend,
places masked in classifieds with terms and phrases
like 'cozy', 'full of character' and 'would suit young
person'. It's all essentially code for 'this is a fucking
shithole and basically impoverished college students
are about the only folks who might want to live here.'
I couldn't believe the landlord that kept a straight
face while telling me that it was kind of neat to see
a squirrel occasionally duck into his unit's bedroom
via the hole in the ceiling...
Speaking
of which, the task of crossing the landlord minefields
can be a tad oppressive. Most folks showing me apartments
have been, to be fair, just fine' normal, friendly people.
And yet more than a handful did have massive warning
signs attached to their backs. There was the irritable
elderly lady whose living room had a door connected
to my potential apartment and explained that she'd 'drop
in from time to time to check on me'. There was the
thirty'something stoner landlord who kept calling me
'mate' upon discovering I was Australian with such violent
emphasis, as in 'And here's the fucking bathroom...
mate!' that I was genuinely concerned he was about to
roll me for more pot money. And there was the other
elderly landlord, the ninety'two year old former marine
with two hearing aids who enjoyed telling me about how
he was due in for leg surgery in the next few weeks.
He was as deaf as could be. Here's an exchange we had:
Evan:
So is there a washing machine in the basement?
Old Dude: Wha?
Evan: (louder) Is there a washing machine in the basement?
Old Dude: Huh? You have to speak up, son. I'm a bit
deaf.
Evan: (shouting) I said, is there a washing machine
in the basement?
Old Dude: You say you want to move to Washington D.C?
You
get the picture... The place was nice enough, I guess,
but I could only imagine the battles ahead if something
important happened, like I had to explain to him there
was a leak in the roof, or my lights weren't working...
Last
night, after a frazzled, hot day of apartment hunting
I looked forward to a restful night of sleep. Instead,
all I dreamt of 'painfully' were endless black and white
newspaper pages of apartment listings.
You
want to ask me about the apartment and house scene in
Bangor? You want to know if most places have tubs or
showers? Tiled kitchens or wood floors? At this point
I know all there is to know.
Now
if I can just find a bloody place to live...
Ezy
Reading is out every Monday...
