Day 77
Location 16: London
Jan. 16, 2023
Before departing on this Europe trip, I lived in three Boston apartments in three years.
My first Boston apartment was financed by my first real job, which didn't pay much. So the apartment wasn't great: the bathroom was in the kitchen and the two bedrooms shared a paper-thin wall with a door (without a lock) that allowed easy access back and forth between rooms. We agreed to never open that door, ever. Oh also sometimes the water was yellow with critters in it:
But the craziest thing about the apartment was my roommate, bar none. He was a sweet, lovely, smart alien. Yes, an alien.
Evidence that my roommate was an alien:
The first night: Our first night in the apartment, Max made himself a dinner no human had ever made before: plain penne pasta (no sauce, not even butter) with baked beans on top. Baked beans. On plain pasta. "Hmm, never seen that combo before" I said like a character in a sci-fi movie that fears the monster is shed its human skin and devour them whole. "Really? I it's a super popular meal." (Narrator: "it's not".)
The second thing: Max already lived there for a year, so he'd designed the living room layout: two couches faced each other, rather than the tv. Odd, but not alien. When he would have a date over, he'd drag one couch to be mere inches away from the tv. Okay, slightly alien. This would force me to navigate the extremely narrow obstacle course (see the orange path below) to get to the kitchen. Now, that's some alien shit.
Left: Our usual living room setup (despite it being unusual). | Right: Max's date-night living room setup.
Here's the big one: Max would forget to flush sometimes. As in, his poop. 1st time: fine. 2nd time: weird coincidence. 3rd time: this is a pattern. "Hey man, I think sometimes you might be forgetting to flush," I say in the most uncomfortable confrontation I've ever had to initiate. "Oh shit, sorry I know I do that sometimes. Thanks for telling me." Oh shit, indeed. Two things about this: (1) The worst part was I'd go to the bathroom, lift up the seat, and be hit with a one-two punch of both the visual disgust of someone else's shit staring back at me and–more disgustingly–the olfactory disgust of digested human waste that has been marinating in its own stink for who knows how long. It happened so often that I started a group chat with people aware of the situation where I'd send them the date and time for every offense that occurred.
The icing on the cake: I noticed one day that Max was using a body wash with the brand name "Max". As an alien, he must've been browsing body wash, saw one with his name, and–with a lackluster understanding of the nuances of human society–assumed this one must be for me.
Anyway, all of that is to say my first Boston apartment was on Cambridge Street. And today in London, I passed by a little reminder of home. You know how some memories can bring back tastes or even smells? Well, while passing by the sign below, I swear there was a faint familiar smell of a strangers rotting, soaking poop. Ahhhhh.
