5/2/2013 8 Comments MI CASA NOT SU CASAShare-house living beyond bin juice and crazy people In an attempt to self-soothe and process my recent onslaught of house-sharing disasters, I decided to make light of my experience by recounting it as humorously and honestly as possible. Because sometimes the most effective way of moving onwards and upwards, or at least anywhere but down, is to laugh so hard at the situation that it becomes completely absurd, at which point you can disconnect, deflect, and exhale. I moved to Madrid 6 months ago, sliding instantly into a shared apartment with five guys, one of whom is my boyfriend. A combination of jet-lag that only Europe-bound Australians truly know, being previously unaccustomed to living as six in the one space, and the fact that I have a vagina, meant that fusing seamlessly into what looked and smelt like a Frat house, was certainly an ambitious goal. Determined, I tried to ‘self-initiate’ through a combination of excessive drinking, surviving on a diet primarily of pasta, playing darts like a pro, feigning a refined knowledge of beer, and basically downplaying anything female. 6 months later however, I am awoken by the drunken shrieks of my housemates destroying furniture and elatedly throwing eggs at the kitchen ceiling. I have an epiphany. I decide I no longer want to live in a place that you need to build an immune for and in which you can’t risk going bare-foot. I have loftier expectations and look to a brighter, more promising house-sharing horizon; one where I don’t slip on bin juice, one where we don’t eat using plastic spoons, one where solids don’t liquefy in the fridge. Yes, channelling Martin Luther King, except in reference to house-sharing, I have a dream. My dream, and consequent fortnightly mission that pursues, is to find a new home, preferably tended to by females wherein I am not enveloped in a curious testosterone funk. The upside of Spain’s downside is that there are plenty of rooms available thanks to the housing crisis, among many, here in Madrid. Propelled by a sense of quasi emergency, I (later regretfully) accept a room wedged into the first share-apartment I set foot in. It’s an airless, aged little space but it happens to have a view of Plaza Mayor, which I use to justify my decision to move into it. Done and dusted, feeling pretty chuffed with the swift pace of my relocating, I drag my suitcase up eight flights of stairs and unpack its contents into my new, but also old, wardrobe. But as is typically the case with any job hastily done, things quickly start falling apart.. One key source of unease is my curious sub-letter and housemate who for the sake of both our identities I shall call Nacho. Nacho was weird from the get-go. He presented me with a contract consisting of nine clauses, firmly informing me of the many house rules (no more than two guests allowed, no walking around with shoes on after 10pm, no drugs, no parties including dinner parties, and no smoking on your private balcony because Nacho smells everything… everything). Foolishly, I signed the agreement, was handed the keys, and retreated to my room. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Aside from the unrelenting, roaring noise that surged outwards and upwards from Plaza Mayor, a weighty chunk of sound that you can almost feel, it is the state of my new bed that surreptitiously makes its way into my consciousness. Upon a rickety, single-bed frame are piled three mattresses, all in different but equally degenerate conditions. My body wobbled and sunk into creaking springs and uneven foam, as if atop an unintentional waterbed. And so to a cacophonous soundtrack of tourists, restaurateurs, garbage trucks, homeless people, and street vendors selling those squeaking voice amplifiers that god only knows who buys, I rode the ebb and flow of the wave that was my mattress slash mattresses. Disgruntled and sleep-deprived, I soon became aware of Nacho’s omnipresence, and how it infused the atmosphere of the flat. The three other girls with whom I was living spent most of their time behind closed doors, leaving the common spaces more or less deserted. I say more or less because Nacho, was, always, there, watching and commentating on movements made and interactions briefly shared in shadows and thoroughfares. I can’t recall if there is a title for this person, but imagine the domineering Madame of a whorehouse and then imagine her as a bald, rotund, Spanish man. This is how I perceived Nacho, insidiously controlling and prodding his young, attractive, female housemates. Day four, I had had enough, and so confided in Madame Nacho, who, blocking the doorway of my little room, was demanding next month’s rent money. Exasperated, I stated that it’s impossible to sleep, even with silicone pushed down each cochlea, and that this simply, isn’t working. Legally, I can leave before the first week is up; this is my ‘wild card’ and I play it. Sensing my heightened anxiety, Nacho, through a half-grimace, half-smile, backs away and says, for now, that he understands. But Nacho’s pseudo carefree persona dissipates during a phone conversation one hour later. In a malevolent, prying voice he interrogates: ‘Are you playing games with meee?’ He demands what my ‘real reason’ for leaving is, accusing me of lying, etc. I calmly and honestly assure him that if I could sleep I wouldn’t be moving. Nacho’s voice suddenly eases. He apologises and hangs up. It’s my last night on a bed that looks like a prop from that Spanish horror movie, ‘The Orphanage’, or the bed that gets sprayed with vomit and urine in ‘The Exorcist’. The stained doona and sheet concretize the association. At midnight I receive a private Facebook message from Nacho, which I would love to copy and paste directly here because it really does sing for itself. For starters, every third line is in caps lock. Secondly, the tone of voice flickers from apologetic to threatening, as if two separate people have joint-written it. Amongst a hefty chunk of text, certain sentences stand out, for example: ‘The Lawyer will be MAD ABOUT THIS, ‘The Lawyer said pay THIS amount’, ‘We’ll have to see what THE LAWYER says’, ‘The deposit is already LOCKED IN THE BANK’, etc. Between you and I, I think by ‘the Lawyer’, Nacho means himself, and by ‘bank’, Nacho means his top drawer. The following day, I look at five apartments, racing between them on foot. I wish I had been wearing one of those things that fat people wear to record the daily distance they’ve walked, out of sheer curiosity and awe of my trek. Learning from my mistake, I make it my prerogative to test out every bed, unashamed of how neurotic I appear to an audience of inquisitive strangers (one girl walked into her bedroom to discover me rolling around as I simulated typical sleeping positions beneath her covers). Yes, I was on a mission. I arrive at house number three 10 minutes early, which provokes the tenant, a flushed and furious woman in her 30s to reprimand me in Spanish for not coming at the designated time, for interrupting her eating, and for invading her space. After a silent, very passive-aggressive, 40-second tour of the apartment, she slams the front door behind me. I thank her in my head for making my decision for me, and feel a genuine pang of pity for the tenant who will eventually move into that bitch’s pad. I trust my gut regarding the next place – a tiny flat containing six girls, one bathroom, and beds that had died a million deaths. Back to the drawing board, I trawl through another 300 or so properties online, messaging the proprietors in my best Spanish to arrange meetings for the following day. With low expectations, the next morning I apathetically meander to the first of the day’s list of viewings. To my surprise, I am greeted by the wide grin of a girl who looks like a Spanish version of myself. The apartment, large, clean and flooded with light, is instantly exciting; the new, plump, and stable mattress in the available bedroom, even more so. There is nothing at all Nacho-like in the other male housemate either (thank god!), a charismatic, 30-year-old Spanish screenwriter. I even coincidentally happen to know the other housemate, a literature student from California. To use the cliché, it’s love at first sight. I’ve since spent my first night in my new home, and am elated to report back that I slept well, enjoyed downtime with my new, normal, flatmates, and passed through common areas feeling neither paranoid nor watched. If I could offer any advice for those endeavouring to house-share, it would be: don’t say yes to crazy people, read the contract thrice, and always, always, trust your gut. Image source: flickr.com/photos/45976731@N06/7017083761/in/photostream
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