It was a great home. Just lovely. Two levels, our own rooftop terrace, a lot of space. A lot of light. And it was affordable. And in a great barrio.
Then it became apparent that the bottom stair was never going to get fixed. So, we got used to hopping over it to get up and down the stairs. As a dancer, I was a bit uncomfortable but had to do what I had to do.
Then the faucet in the kitchen started running. Not leaking, but running. The solution the owner came up with was to shut off the water (and we would manually turn it on when we needed it).
Then my bedroom door broke off. Yes, broke off.
Things went on like this for a few months, and then the gasista came along because all the gas lines in the house had to be updated. And thus began almost a month with no gas (meaning, no hot showers, no cooking) and lots of breaking of walls, and lots of dust in the house. It was very complicated work. The gasista also killed every plant we had, except the rosemary and my sage (which my roommates saved), because he was not careful and threw his equipment on the plants and allowed pieces of wall to fall on them. No privacy, no tranquility. I stayed elsewhere, being a wimp, while my roommates braved their way through the 23 days of cold showers and eating salads and sandwiches while putting up with dust in their clothes, sheets, everywhere. I think they deserve a medal.
Then the toilet tank stopped filling. Or rather, it filled, but very slowly. Very. Slowly.
Then I moved.
And now where I am, there is no gas. I hope I haven’t cursed my beloved friends that I’m staying with!
My grandmother has commented before that some things are put together – or repaired – with a rubber band and a piece of string (with all due credit to Joli who thinks the same way). I am beginning to see what she means!
