The quest for the perfect apartment

A few posts back, I was making a big fuss about the coming of April and that if Tuesday the 10th didn't rear it's head fast enough, I was going to explode into a million butterflies and fly away. Imagine that. Well ladies and gents guess what date is knock knock knockin at my door? Good Old 10th and he's carrying bags.

The 10th signals for me a different kind of freedom. Do you remember when you moved out of your parents home either for college or to get married or just because you were old enough to understand the word autonomy isn't about stars in the skies? Well I do. 23 is when I started paying a mortgage. And I was glad to do it-even though I had to rush to my parents house because I wasn't able to keep the water on all the time. Funny days. I would burst in the door with my tail between my legs and say " Dad..I need to take a shower." He'd reply " Why? don't you have water in your own house?" I'd shake my head no, embarrassed. " What happened Malaik? How come you don't have water?" Me " Because I paid the mortgage and I don't have any money left over." He laughed and I just took my pathetic self up stairs to have a shower. But I also remember in those moments I would whisper to myself at least I paid the mortgage. Yes that was my small sense of accomplishment. I think in part, the reason I wanted to do things on my own was because that's what I've mostly always known. I was the latch key kid in my younger days in New Jersey. Putting the rice on soon as I got home from school like mom's would ask. Barely old enough to make my own grilled cheese sandwiches, but watching cartoons with a spatula in my hand. I had first born syndrome-the ultimate path creator who was very certain and sure of herself. Those characteristics are still ingrained in my DNA to this day. So when Peace Corps informs us that we can move out on the 10th of April albeit preferring that we stay with our host families, I was all over it.

Beginning in March I started looking for housing. There aren't exactly signs in the windows saying apartments for lease. No guidebook pointing you to the brand new up and coming community complex complete with swimming pool and tennis court. No, no craigslist either. So that left me to fend for myself, initially. Barely able to scrape 4 coherent azeri words together, I took a pen, a pad, put on my hiking sneaks, grabbed courage by the hand and told him to bring his friend Balls for we were going to look for an apartment. I walked right up to random people who looked like they lived in the building I was perusing and asked them if they had a free house. I shouted up at women hanging out their windows, asking them if their building was free. I approached police officers, storefront owners, and anyone staring at me longer than they should have with a prepared question and a disclaimer about my poor language capabilities. Just this alone got things stirring. Some people responded instantly. Pulling out their cell phones and calling people saying that there was a girl from America looking for a place to live. That's an Azeri for you.The exemplary human network.

I just wanted anyone who was willing to listen to me, to help me out. I did this for a couple of days and eventually thought it was best to look in my own backyard for assistance. I asked the director at the local IREX if she knew anyone. The computer room filled with people all answered my question. One woman said " She can live with me. I will give her her privacy." I refused profusely explaining that I'm in that situation already. Another woman offered to call a friend of hers who had an apartment close by. I could go look at it, right at the moment if I wanted. I gave her the do you think I'm going to say no facial expression. So here comes this man in his causal suit, avoiding eye contact, shy as can be offering to take me, the woman that called him, and the director of the IREX a few feet over to an apartment building.

One thing I should say is that the soviet buildings might look like they are one stone away from crumbling, but these bad boys are sturdy and built to last all the iron fists. Essentially you can't judge a book by its cover. We walked up a couple flight of stairs to a single roomed apartment. My mouth hit the floor. It was barren, concrete, with a blue couch that was missing it's pillow cushions.The kitchen was a sink and a little red box toaster oven located on the floor. The bathroom looked like a bomb went off in there. The toilet was just a bowl and a there was a sink with no faucet. It wasn't big-maybe 800sqft. It was a quick look through and the man turned to me and asked if I liked it. Being kind, I said it was nice but that I wasn't interested. He wanted 100 manat(AZN) and said that the place was good because the couch also pulled out into a bed. I just had to laugh. "Nah my brotha..that's not good enough. You are gonna have to throw a construction hat in the deal."

A few days or so later I got anxious and wanted to beat the street again. On my way out the door my host mom asked me if I wanted her to help me. I got bright eyed and said YES. Why hadn't I asked her before? So we beat the street together. Doing the same thing. Asking random people, women hanging out the window, knocking on doors like Jehovah witnesses. Some people were once again johnny on the spot responsive. Making phone calls and asking us to wait patiently. One lady said there was a 3 bedroom apartment that I could look at. She grabbed the keys and we walked to check it out. Another unfinished bomb shelter. She wanted to give it to me-furnitureless for 120manat. I smiled and politely declined using the phrase: I will think about it. We hit the street a bit more and then ran into this kid who said his family was moving to Moscow and they wanted to rent out their apartment. If we would call him tomorrow, he could show it to us. We kept it moving, taking his number in the process. Then this man, hanging out of his window shouted for us to come to his apartment. I initially hesitated but told my host mom we have nothing to lose at this point. It couldn't have been worse than what we already saw. A few flights of stairs and a man opens the door, meek and mild wearing a green beanie. He invites us in and lowers his voice to inform my host mom that he and his wife are moving to Baku for a few years and would like to rent their apartment out. He cleared some space for me to do a walk through and I was thrilled. A cute little living room with a bouncy couch, a hallway for a kitchen, a bathroom that looked like it had some sense, a full sized bed, cabinets and a fridge. There were rugs and runners and things to make it cozy-plants, dishes, china, chairs, sunlight. We inquired about how much and he said 150 manat proudly. ! DAMN ! Peace Corps only gives 120 for housing in Shirvan. We took his number, and I said I would think about it. The next day came and I was headed home after school when this man walks up on me speaking Russian on the rocks. I stop in my tracks, call my host mom and tell her that although I can't really put together what he's saying, but that it sounds like he is telling me he has an apartment for rent. If she would simply talk to him and translate that would be great. Well she wouldn't. She said " GIRL BRING YOUR BROWN SELF HOME RIGHT NOW BEFORE I GET A SWITCH AND WHIP YOU." Now you know I got that first born syndrome and I just can't help myself. I went with the man but stayed 2 steps behind him. He brings me to the building of the family that was moving to Moscow to which I recognized the mother. I said my salams all while being directed to an apartment on the first floor of a gypsy hobo with a sheet for a door. OH GEEZ! HERE WE GO. This woman with her multicolored head scarf, mismatched socks, bright sea green moo moo grabbed me by my sleeve to walk me through a makeshift kitchen (because the stove was really on the porch) past the bathroom where Death lived and into a dank dark room covered with these mattress pad type pillows sprawled out on the floor. She opened her mouth full of gold-simply cheesing and asked me if I liked it. What do you think I said?

NO!

I did not say what you think I said. I hightailed it out of there almost losing my glass slipper.  I ran past the the woman, the fridge, death and his bathroom, down the stone blocks for steps and past the drunk Russian. I burst into the door of my house, little beads of sweat forming on  my nose and pulled my host dad to the side to teach him the phrase: THAT ISH WAS CRAY!

My host mom, mad of course, asked me what happened. I explained to her the entire situation and said conclusively that I didn't want to look at anymore apartments. I'm going with Mr. Beanie and the 150 manat apartment and I will be by twice a week to take a stovetop bath.

To be continued...

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