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I hate the first night in a new place. Let me say that again: I HATE the first night in a new place. I didn't used to, but after moving from one place to another, repeatedly packing and unpacking, adjusting to new beds, new pillows, new showers, new layouts, and new noises since June, I now find each new move unbearable. I cannot express how much I long for an apartment that is full of our own things: furniture, photos, bed linens, towels, books, etc.
This current apartment is very nice, quite large, in a part of town we really like, with a dishwasher and washer/dryer in the apartment. But when it comes down to it, it's not home, and I think when one is not settled in a living situation, one cannot be settled in life.
So we are home but not home. There is a smell in this apartment, like an old musty cellar, where rugs have gotten wet and dried again. I have about 6 candles burning throughout the apartment in an effort to banish the smell.
And I cannot understand why, in furnished apartments and many hotels, it is impossible to find a bed that does not have other people's hair in it. It baffles me. Needless to say, I re-washed the sheets and comforter cover.
We were supposed to move in yesterday (Sunday), but we had a bit of an adventure upon moving in which forced us to have to return to the previous temporary furnished apartment for one more night.
What happened was this: Steve had been given the keys to the outer door and apartment the day before. I had actually never seen the apartment. Steve came and looked at it without me one day when I was busy, and he saw it and he said that it was good.
We entered the building and climbed the stairs (multiple bags in tow) to the third and top floor. We tried the key. Nothing. We wiggled it. We jiggled it. We sang to it. Nothing. We surmised that she must have given us the wrong key.
Did I mention that it was a Sunday and that it was also pouring with rain outside?
Suddenly Steve wondered if maybe he had the wrong apartment, and if it was actually the apartment on the second floor into which we were supposed to be moving.
"You have been here before, yes?" I asked him.
He assured me that he had, but suddenly, in that moment, he doubted himself and wondered if maybe he had the wrong floor. Luckily, there are only two apartments to choose from.
Steve went downstairs and tried the key in the lock to the other apartment, and lo and behold, the door popped open. This would have been wonderful had it not been for the two half-asleep and bewildered people who were actually living in said apartment.
The male of the couple started yelling: "Who are you? What are you doing? Get out! Just get out!"
Steve apologized profusely and tried to explain, but the man continued to lose his mind.
"God damn!!" we could hear him shouting and stamping around. Have I mentioned he was kind of a big guy?
His female counterpart then opened the door and the two of them looked out at us as if we were a couple of ax-murdering-circus-freaks, and we tried again to explain what had happened. The lady-friend seemed calm about it all, but the guy still continued to stomp around in the background, cursing and shoving hunks of raw meat into his mouth.
We called the rental office and informed them that we had been given the keys to the wrong apartment. It was then that we were informed that no, we hadn't been given the wrong key, both apartments have the same lock, and therefore, the same key that works on one apartment will work on the other.
Well then it was our turn to lose our minds. Both apartments have the same key??!!! What is this, BIG LOVE, where we're all just one big happy family who just can waltz in and out of each others' homes whenever we like?!
How would I ever sleep knowing that Thor, the moody giant downstairs could just enter my home whenever the whim took hold of him, say, for example, if he smelled pie?
And isn't it, oh I don't know, ILLEGAL, to not have a separate lock for each apartment?!
My friend in the Sheriff's department informed me that, why yes, indeed, it is illegal, so Steve called the owner of the building and informed her that we weren't moving in until she changed the lock.
And you'll never guess what she did....she argued. She protested. She claimed it was fine, that it had always been like that, and that (and this one is my favorite) she knew the people downstairs and they were nice. NICE?! Isn't that what people said about Jeffrey Dahmer?
The man downstairs, she informed us, is a baseball player! As if that made anything better. Then all I could do was imagine this guy coming after us in a roid-rage swinging a baseball bat.
Steve essentially informed her that she was an idiot, and once he dropped the phrase "Our friend in the Sheriff's Department says...." she quickly changed her tune.
So now, here we are. Temporarily.
On another note:
My loyal reader Kiki asked for a recommendation for a wine to accompany Pad Thai.
Since I have babbled so much today, however, I will wait and answer that question tomorrow.
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