Out by the Onion Fields
I wish for the sake of humor and cultural capital that I had rented the pink double-wide trailer out west of town by the onion fields.
I wanted to like it, really, I did. We drove all the way out and I met the woman who owns the trailers (there are 4, different colors, all in a row by the highway) and she was just the kind of old woman who lives in a trailer: thinning hair, shapeless housedress over a shapeless body, thick, veiny legs, a slow hobbling walk, and a sly look in her eye that said she was making judgments that might differ from her pleasant tone of voice.
The first thing you noticed upon walking into the trailer was the smell - that trailer smell that, if you've ever been in an old trailer, you know all too well. It's a mix of shag carpet, wood paneling, funky plastic bathroom fixtures, old cooking grease, dead bugs, and something else that's hard to get a finger on but is unmistakable. Old trailers just have a funk. The funk killed the appeal for me. That, and its (relatively) high price tag, complete lack of furnishings, non-functional electrical elements (the landlady rattled off a list of things that she was planning to have 'fixed' whenever she could find a trustworthy contractor. HA.), obviously poor insulation, and the fat highway out front with intermittent-but-loud traffic.
It really is too bad, though: haven't you ever wanted to tell someone that you live in the pink double-wide trailer out by the onion fields?
(more below the cut)
So the trailer was a bust. The next place was too. One of many lessons I have learned about renting a place after this experience: if you see a FOR RENT sign in the window of a nice-looking little house and call up and ask to see the place, by all means ASK how much the rent is before making the owner drive all the way out to show you the place. Because if it's twice what you can afford, you'll feel pretty sheepish spending 10 minutes fantasizing about what you could do with the place while the owner waters the plants out front.
Mom and I got some decent Mexican food downtown and reflected on my rather dim prospects. Finally we hit the magic 7 o'clock hour and booked it over to the second-floor apartment that had been postponed from the afternoon. I knocked on the door of the house. Nothing. A minute passed. I knocked again. A small gap appeared in the window blinds, followed by a rustle of motion. A tall, slender man stepped out, red-haired, with a good handshake. He led me upstairs into a small, dark, nest-like apartment: it had a tiny bedroom with closet and drawers built into the eaves, a tiny kitchen crammed tunnel-like into another space, and a big open living area with a row of small windows across the front. I really liked it. It felt comfortable and livable, as if I could move in and make it mine. It was a bit small, mostly regarding the kitchen, and a bit dark. But perhaps I could work with that. At this point, it was a huge step up from the trailer.
Friday dawned gorgeous, cool and clear and not too oniony. I had lined up several visits for the day. First up was a drive-by to see an "older, small" home "in the country." On the first round, we drove and drove, several miles out, just as the landlady had said, but were stopped at the end of the road by a large NO TRESPASSING sign. I turned the car around and resolved to get better instructions later in the day.
Next up: 10 am at a rental agency. I was third in line waiting for the place to open. The agent, an assistant not much older than I, was friendly and frank as she listed the few properties she had available. I asked to see everything within my price range (4 rentals).
The first site was pretty nice - ground-floor, decent bedroom, living area, large kitchen. I liked it but it didn't really make an impression.
The second two sites were in a big boxy yellow house. One was a studio, tiny as could be, but cozy and full of light. I worried about cooking less than 4 feet from my bed, though. One burned fish filet and my life could be hell. The second place was bigger, and the kitchen was just lovely - big windows and good counterspace for a small apartment. All the rooms had good light. I wasn't crazy about the vague old linoleum and shag carpeting, but by this point I'd resigned myself to the fact that every single rental unit in Ontario has SHAG CARPET.
The last site was a dud - a basic one-bedroom in a big multiplex place, unremarkable and seriously funky, almost as bad as the trailer. But I'd liked the two in the yellow house, so I took an application from the agent and promised to return it later that day if I decided to take one of the apartments.
First, though, I had to see the house in the country and another small house in town. Armed with better directions to the house in the country, I set off, past the rest of the houses, past the horses in dusty corrals, past the onion shipping warehouses, past that No Trespassing sign, down nearly half a mile of rubbledy slow gravel, only to pull up at a ramshackle house with tiny sad windows, cracks and staining all over the walls, and a general air of disrepair. It was also completely unfurnished - not even a range and fridge - and on the high end of what I could afford. I gave up another sounds-romantic-and-colorful-but-isn't-so-great fantasy and moved on.
After this fiasco, mom was really excited to see the next place, the last one on my list. It was a bit expensive, and unfurnished, and I'd have to pay all the utils, but we'd driven by and it was a lovely little home with a carport and roses out front and a big back yard. The owner showed up in a shiny black truck and greeted us with a cordial air. He had a very nice mustache.
Inside, the place was just great - big kitchen, tiny cute back porch, wood floor in the bedroom, good gas heating... but he said he already had several applications in for the place and wouldn't be able to even look at my app until next week. Also, it was unfurnished. Also, I'd have had to pay all the utilities. But it was so cute! I took an application, thanked the man, and went to the coffee shop to sit and crunch some numbers and make some hard decisions.
With a Jones Soda at my side, I looked at the figures. The wonderful little house would cost almost two thirds of my take-home monthly pay counting utilities. Even if mom and dad and amma kicked in a little bit, it'd still come out to half my paycheck. My very small paycheck. I decided not to do it. I really don't want to live on a razor-thin budget margin.
That left the apartments - the cozy, small upstairs apartment with lots of eaves and nooks, the tiny studio, and the other upstairs apartment with the wonderful kitchen and nice light. I bet you can guess which one I chose.
BUT you will have to wait because I'm tired and have run out of writing energy. I probably ought to edit these long, rambling travelogue-style posts sometime. As for the apartment - well, I'll tell you tomorrow.
Still to come:
the decision
the coincidence
clearly, fate
other observations about ontario
my new place
BOISE
pictures!