Dia de mudarme/Move-in day

Monday I experienced that rite of passage all people go through when changing their place of residence, which of course is move-in day.  If you think moving is a stressful evolution back at home, just try and imagine what it must be like to do it in a foreign country!  Luckily for me, before I even arrived to Spain my friend Emily found me a furnished “piso” to rent, conveniently owned by the landlord who also owns the house she and her husband are renting.  A piso is a flat or apartment, depending on your English-speaking country of origin.  To me, “flat” is more descriptive because it doesn’t allude to accommodations most Americans, New Yorkers excluded, are accustomed to.  Like a functioning kitchen.  Or, I don’t know, a place where the bed, living and dining room furniture aren’t all in the same space.

All preconceived notions of the definition of ‘apartment’ aside, the piso couldn’t be in a more perfect location.  Nestled between two lively plazas, one big and one small, it’s just two blocks from the university which, like many colleges in the United States, makes it just steps away from some of the best watering holes in town.  It also means that when I have my class break during siesta, anywhere between 2 and 6 p.m. local time but for me is from 2 to 4:30, I can easily crash at my own pad (sweet!).  But also, the flat itself is located in what I’m sure was once a grand palace in the heart of Cadiz, which easily could have been built around 200-300 years ago, just to provide some point of reference.  Like no other apartment to rent in the U.S., that’s for sure.

Yet despite these attractive qualities, move-in day is still move-in day, and all the anxieties that go along with up-rooting yourself and your worldly possessions (in my case, mainly my clothes) don’t magically disappear simply because it’s a foreign country, even if that country is lovely Spain.  For starters, when I first arrive at the apartment the caretaker, or the person I gather is the landlord’s agent (the landlord’s cousin, but of course), tells me there is a small problem.  The cleaning lady arrived earlier that morning and locked the keys in the apartment.  The caretaker doesn’t even have a key to enter into the building’s main corridor and has to ring for someone to let us in.  Hmmmm. 

Then there is the issue of exactly which apartment I am going to rent.  My choice is the attic flat, which the landlord has yet to renovate but, when I met with him the week prior, he assured me would be ready in one month.  So I was already aware the first apartment I was moving into was only temporary, until the attic could be renovated.  Yet when I ask to see the attic on Monday in order to check on the renovation progress, I find it looks exactly as it did when I first saw it a week and a half ago.  Furthermore, I run into the contractor who is doing the renovation, a gruff, short middle-aged man, and he is hesitant to give me any kind of indication as to when the apartment might be done, if ever.  This does not provide any relief, whatsoever, from my move-in day anxiety. 

The next time I see the contractor he is knocking on my door so that he can access the apartment to fix the drains to the sink and shower.  Really?  After the cleaning lady was already here in the morning to clean?  Yes, which makes me wonder what the Spanish definition of cleaning an apartment is.  After about an hour and a half of commotion from him and two of his co-workers running out and about, setting up a rather peculiar-looking plumbing machine and shouting back and forth with what I presume to be some local version of rapid, explicative-filled Spanish, he calls for me to look and see something.  He has clentched in his fist and then shoves in my face a huge, stinky grey mass of what looks to me to be hair and goo, typical stuff that causes clogged drains.  He explains it’s because of “la comida,” the food leftover on the dishes the previous tenant tried to wash in the bathroom sink.  Instead, I need to use the common kitchen area to clean my dishes.  I nod my head, Sí, not seeing this as an issue since there is no kitchen in the apartment in the first place.  He then snorts and proceeds to throw the blob directly into the trash can for added emphasis, just to be absolutely certain I get the message.

Still, as I’m finding most times is the case with my Spanish adventures, there is a silver lining to the chaos that has become my life.  After working non-stop unpacking clothes, scavenging for and moving furniture, and fixing minor odds and ends like closet doors and window hinges and taking a break only for classes, I now have a place to come home to that I absolutely adore.  Case in point, as I write this blog entry every so often I’m glancing out the window from the small dining table to gaze at oranges growing on the tree in the courtyard garden.  Beautiful.  Sometimes I have to pinch myself for the luck.  So much so that when I ran into the contractor on the street yesterday on my way to the big plaza, la Plaza San Antonio, I told him I didn’t really mind exactly when the attic renovation would be finished. 

“No me importa.”