A Home of One’s Own

What asshole left those dishes in the sink for the past three days? Oh right, it was me. And whose clothes are strewn all about the place? Me again. And the layer of dust an inch thick — don’t tell me, it was that jerk me again. Dearest fellow travelers, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am that in just a few short weeks, I will once again have these non-woes.

I’ve always enjoyed living on my own, and did so for a couple years after college, but I can live with others. I was a miserable roommate freshman year, but by the time I was studying in Rome junior year, I had shaped up into a more considerate person (with egregious exceptions, I’m sure). When I moved to Chicago, I found two roommates looking for a third on Craigslist, and we quickly settled into a happy living situation.

That was three years ago, and since then I’ve had eight roommates total rotate through the same apartment. I became close friends with three of them, dire enemies with one, resentful acquaintances with two, and friendly Facebook friends with the rest. I discovered all the reasons people love living with others: someone to talk to when you come home from work, someone to share dinner with, someone to split the utility bills with. I’ve entertained couch surfers with roommates and thrown blowout parties with roommates. I went to Jamal’s improv show and to the movies with Mike. Marina made me a hedgehog cake from scratch for my birthday and Katherine gave me a book with an inscription that made me cry when she moved away. After they moved out, I visited Julie in Pasadena and Marina in Utrecht.

So you see, I have thoroughly enjoyed many aspects of living with others, and I’ve been pretty lucky in finding strangers on Craigslist who turn into friends. But the roommates who didn’t work out so well — well, they’re reason enough to take up residence in a hermitage. I’m done covering other people’s rent in order to avoid eviction, discovering multiple items stolen from my room and common rooms, and locking myself away from overnight guests high on drugs I couldn’t even name. There are downsides to not knowing who you’re shacking up with, although as I always point out to concerned relatives, living with someone is also the easiest way to lose a once-good friend after innumerable fights over boyfriends who never leave the apartment, bills gone unpaid, and the ever-present dishes/cleaning situation. You take a risk however you go about it.

And thus I’m saying farewell to my beloved apartment (so beloved that Marina and I named it Angie) and moving across the alley to a one bedroom. It’ll cost much more, it’s three flights up instead of ground floor, and there’s no porch, but in exchange I get to be the sole ruler of my domain, and nothing matches the sweetness of that.

Have you all seen this video that’s been making the rounds, “How to Be Alone“? Andrea Dorfman recorded a video set to Tanya Davis’s poem about not just making it through times when you’re on your own, but embracing, savoring, and enjoying the state of being alone. It’s a lovely video and I appreciate the sentiment, even if at this stage in my life I don’t need the advice because I’m actively living it.

I’m sure there will be a time in the future when I won’t mind sharing my permanent living space, and of course couch surfing my way around the world is a whole separate issue of nomadic living, but for now I’m perfectly content to set up a new apartment and make it my own.

How about you? What living situation works best for you? What roommate horror stories or heartwarming tales do you have?

I will miss Angie, though. Lucky the Stones wrote a song just for us. Ain’t it time we said goodbye, indeed:

Great Expectations

And now, dearest fellow travelers, for the flip side of the coin. Last week I talked about how great it is when you go somewhere new and it’s better than expected. I didn’t mean that I go to new places not expecting to like them, but that I sometimes have to overcome some preconceptions to really appreciate them. Also, when you’re visiting a city for the first time, it’s hardly unusual to feel some trepidation at what you might find there, and the nervousness mixes up with the excitement until you have a little knot of energy in your stomach, making you kind of nauseated and kind of buzzed at the same time.

At least, this is what I experience when I’m visiting a new place, and I feel this regardless of whether I’m visiting for a few days or staying for several months. When I physically approach a place that I’ve previously only known through pictures, guidebooks, and secondhand stories, my whole body vibrates with the sensation of moving from the familiar to the unfamiliar and also from the unfamiliar to the familiar — from my home to a new place, but also from not being personally connected to this place to being bodily in and of it. I love that feeling of being on the edge of knowing the unknowable, of reaching out to touch the as-yet-nonexistent with your fingertips, crossing over from plans of the future to realities of the present. This is one of the biggest thrills of travel, and I have yet to tire of it.

Some people, however, freak out at the whole idea. My junior year of college, I lived in Rome for 5 months and studied classical history, archeology, and Renaissance art. I approached those months with a jumble of feelings, but the overriding emotion was excitement. I couldn’t believe I was living in this place, which was simultaneously a living monument to history and a bustling modern city. My roommates, on the other hand, couldn’t believe they were living in this dirty, noisy, badly run city, and they commented on it almost daily.

The Pantheon in Rome, Italy

K College has several very good study abroad programs, but Rome is not one of them. They don’t run it; it’s farmed out to the American University in Rome, which is kept busy bringing in students from a lot of different schools. The 16 of us from K got lost in the shuffle — we lived with each other in small apartments, we didn’t speak any Italian, and we had no class trips or on-site director (unlike programs in most other countries). So we weren’t a cohesive unit by any means, but still, we were all there because we were in the Classics department back home, so that was a kind of place to start.

But it was apparent in the first week alone that I had a very different idea about living in Rome than my roommates did. The five of us weren’t friends before living together, and I don’t think any of us went home very close, so on top of the stress of starting a new school and living in a new country thousands of miles from home, we all added the stress of living in close quarters with virtual strangers. At first, it was like freshman year all over again; we’d go places in groups with the other K kids, who were rooming together in various combinations, and we’d stay up late talking and drinking cheap wine (the difference from freshman year — cheap here meant literally one or two euros). Conversation ranged from the people we’d left behind to the professors and students we were just coming to know, from assignments on ancient sculptures to how to ask for chicken at the supermarket. But somehow conversation always morphed into complaints. I was astonished to learn that my roommates and fellow students of the arts thought Rome was a pit.

They complained about how dirty it was, with graffiti all along the walls of the city and dog poop up and down its sidewalks. They whined about how noisy it was, with nonstop traffic (we lived just up the street from a hospital and became very familiar with the yowl of the Italian ambulance) and inefficient buses. And the buses! Don’t get them started on the buses. They were never on time, they didn’t seem to follow any reliable route, and you practically had to flag them down like a taxi just to get a ride. The people were unfriendly, the clothes were expensive, the streets were labyrinthine, the monuments were rundown, the food wasn’t as good as the Italian places back home… It went on and on and on.

I discovered potato and rosemary pizza when in Rome, and I'm a better person for it (doesn't seem to actually be pictured here, but these Roman style pizzas are also as good as they look)

Why on earth did they go to Rome in the first place? I’m still not entirely sure on that one. When I asked them, they said they wanted to go on study abroad like the rest of our school did, and they thought Rome would be cooler than it turned out to be. Each of them admitted to not really enjoying cities. Did they think Rome was a small, quaint town? It’s been a massive city teeming with life for literally thousands of years.

It seems that their expectations for Rome weren’t founded in fact or forethought, but rather in a vague idea of European cosmopolitanism and romantic stories of blissful honeymoons. This is the key — plan ahead! Now, before you accuse me of being a list maker and not a risk taker, let me say that yes, I tend towards that way, and it does irk me (but that’s a topic for another post). What I mean is that even if you don’t like to laminate an itinerary before heading out on your travels, you should at least do some preliminary research so you have a basic understanding of the place you’re going and the people who live there. I love hearing stories from fellow travelers, but I am always aware that we’re different people with different tastes, and their idea of fun people or good food is possibly not at all the same as mine. I’ll note down the restaurant and sightseeing recommendations and keep them in mind as possibilities, but not must-sees. Guidebooks, too, are written by people with individual tastes, budgets, and travel companions, but at least I can get an idea of the lay of the land and its history. From these, too, I get possibilities. Guidebooks, friends, blog posts, travel sites, library books, maps — I gather it all up and sort through it for my own interests, then head out to the unknown with at least these knowns in reserve.

I do think that you can have a different approach here for simply visiting a place for a few days. When P and I went to Memphis, we knew we were going to Graceland but we didn’t know anything about Beale Street, and we ended up at an all-ages bar watching a riotous rockabilly act. It was even more fun for being something I didn’t know ahead of time, and then we moved on. But if you’re going to be living in a place for more than a couple weeks, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t prepare yourself as best you can for the customs and people of the place you’ll be living.

This is not to say that I adjusted perfectly well and knew all about every Italian custom before moving there — not at all. In fact, the negativity of my roommates really affected me and I found myself in a weekslong funk, simultaneously resenting every nuance in culture between Italy and the States as well as my roommates for pointing out those nuances every damn day. But I did get out of that funk, and managed to make the best of a bad living situation, and it was actually thanks to those very same roommates.

The Italians take siesta, as do all Mediterranean countries, and in Rome, any time between 1 and 4, shops, offices, and restaurants close for a couple hours as all the workers take a nap from the midday sun. It’s a surreal experience, as an American, to walk down an empty street at 2 in the afternoon, passing shuttered shop after shuttered shop. And then at 4 or 5 they’re all back open for business for another couple hours. My roommates complained about this custom; when were they going to go to the grocery store? What if they got hungry? When were they going to buy school supplies? Why did the whole city have to shut down?

I fell into siesta quite easily; what is there to dislike about citywide naptime? The day I realized I could reclaim my own expectations of living in Rome and reject these false ones my roommates had, it was about 1:30pm and I heard the complaints drifting in from the living room as I climbed into bed. I pulled the covers over my head and thought, “Damn, if there is any time for this phrase, it is now: WHEN IN ROME. Good night!”

an approximation of my cot bed in Rome

P.S. Get excited! Comments on last week’s post about the difference between visiting a place and living there inspired this post, and also a forthcoming guest post from my friend S. Witness the power of your I’m-procrastinating-at-work-so-I’ll-comment-on-Lisa’s-blog energies!