Roughing it

When my friend Pachu showed me the apartment that Meredith and I now live in, I thought it was endearing and warm. I posted pictures showing off my quaint little place, located in one of the best areas of Buenos Aires. I realized it was small and could use a good cleaning, but it was within my budget and I knew that Meredith and I have endured worse. We have both lived in cramped college dorms, a chaotic sorority house, and several less-than-glamorous apartments. I figured that this place was a palace compared to the bad roommates, bugs, drama, and cramped quarters we have both had to suffer through. I was wrong. This place is GHETTO.

Don’t misunderstand me; I love this apartment. I still find it warm and endearing. I love its location and how it really does feel like home to me. But it is far from a palace. In fact, it is quite possibly the most rundown, decrepit place I have ever lived. And I think it’s important for my family and friends to know exactly how much ghetto this white girl can tolerate.

The shabbiness of the place is masked with sparkly pillows, glass tables, and a balcony. It’s when you sit on the decade-old, never-been-washed couches that the pillows lose their glamour. The place is old and has clearly been home to many careless tenants, giving it a feeling of being constantly dirty. Meredith and I clean the place several times a week, but the 4 o’clock sun shining in through the windows still shows the permanent filth sticking to the glass tabletops. The balcony really is wonderful. It’s nice being able to walk out there to enjoy the cool, fall breeze with a cup of yogurt or glass of wine – depending on the time of day. It almost doesn’t matter that the French doors never fully close so we can hear every argument, party, and wind chime coming from our neighbor’s place.

The doorknob doesn’t stay in the door. The refrigerator is from the 70’s and sounds like a radiator. There isn’t any hot water after 9 p.m., but even if you shower when hot water is available it takes a solid ten minutes to heat up. By that time, I’m finished showering. The gas oven only lights if you let the gas run for a minute and 15 seconds. Dangerous much? If anyone in our building forgets to close the elevator door, which happens hourly, we listen to the alarm go off until someone else on that floor needs to use it.

Despite all this, I have never had so much fun living somewhere. Sure, it’s hard to laugh at the situation when I’m trying to force myself closer to the freezing water pouring out of the showerhead. But Meredith and I have been finding the adventure in using antique appliances, the humor of picking doorknobs up off the floor, the health benefits of climbing flights of stairs to catch an elevator, and the joy of roughing it.