House-hunting in Italy would be a delightful cultural experience if you didn’t actually need somewhere to live. Looking for a place to rent in one of its cittt d’arte is a bit like having a close encounter of the third kind; except the aliens are disguised as real estate agents. No one native to this planet could really be so clueless as to what qualifies as basic living quarters.
first agent I visited this week led me across town to see a very unique flat’ in the heart of the central district. Reasonably priced, splendid view, she told me as we clambered up four flights of a spiral staircase and eventually reached the tower room’. A single orphan bunk was pushed up to the slanted wall; the agent and I stood in the only free floor space in the furnished’ hovel. Certainly, the view was great but you might as well have been renting a window frame.
If you were Rapunzel, one of the seven dwarves or a starving writer who wanted to be depressed about the stylistic limitations of green linoleum then this would be your place.
>Is this where they put the bad people?’ I couldn’t resist asking.
She replied, visibly peeved, What do you expect for 500 euro a month?’
Hmm. Apparently, this woman had no idea how hard it is for an earthling to actually earn that kind of money. However, only after I left her company was I able to think of the numerous things I dared to expect for that scoffed-at sum. Namely, a room where I can stand at my full height. And a kitchen that I can get into without having to diet beforehand. And the chance to take a shower without needing to straddle the toilet. Other than that, I’m really pretty flexible.
The second housing agency I visited that morning only had one 500 euro flat available, and it officially cost 650. Maybe the landlady will give it to you for less,’ the agent told me.
>Why would she do that?’ I wanted to know.
>Well, because the apartment is not actually registered as a residence. In reality, it’s a C2′.
>A C2?’
>A warehouse. The light from the windows only illuminates one square meter of the place. The other 24 meters are always in the dark’.
>Oh’.
This guy was trying to rent me the cupboard under the stairs and it was my own fault. I’d forgotten to add more than one square meter of light’ to my expectations list.
The agent studied the shock lines on my face and evidently thought there was still hope. I can take you there this afternoon’, he said. Three people lived in it together all last year. It’s really quite cozy’.
>Cozy’ was my cue to leave. Frankly, I had to get out of there before he told me that the people had slept, like warm, fuzzy bats, hanging upside-down in the wardrobe.
Although, I left the agency quite calmly, by the time I got home from househunting, I was a raving lunatic. These people are crazy!’ I raged. I’m never going to find a place to live in this city!’
My aunt looked up from her game of afternoon solitaire, more worried about her due of diamonds than my dilemma. She had agreed to host me during my transition phase’ because she knew what it was like to be a single woman. You’ll find something’, she said. But, tomorrow, I’ll clear off another shelf in the closet, so you can have more room while you’re here’.
Another shelf? I fumed. She was only being nice, but right then, it was like attempting to conquer world hunger with a single ravioli.
The next morning I stayed in bed late to battle out my growing sense of social resentment. In Zia Meri’s house, breakfast at 11 constitutes a serious statement against the ills of society.
My aunt came into the kitchen, as I was pouring a spot of milk into my coffee. She was carrying a wide square of linen, tightly pressed against her arm. Without the slightest bit of ceremony, she passed me the bundle, This was for your dowry but I want you to have it now’.
I took the gift with some measure of alarm. Zia Meri embroiders tablecloths to give to her nieces on their wedding day. Thus far, she had completed 8 out of 11. Mine, it seemed, was number nine. The fact that she was breaking the rules by giving a dowry present to an unmarried niece was either a very good sign or a very bad one.
I interrupted my own worry with an Oh!’ as I unfolded the tablecloth and found it strewn with lotus flowers and exotic birds.
My cousins’ tablecloths were dotted with rosebuds or sprinkled with daisies and other cheerful country flowers that made you want to welcome spring with trays of cucumber sandwiches and strawberry tarts. Mine was a waterless wave of quiet-glen flowers whose firm petals would not easily reveal the depths of their reserve. Only the birds, with their jewel-green embroidered bellies were fat with the sweetness of pond secrets.
My aunt had made me an exotic woman’s tablecloth. There was nothing domestic about it.
>? bellissima’, I told her.
She nodded. When you find your house, you will need this for your table. Once you have a table for people to gather around, you’ll have a home’.
Zia Meri’s words were il fatto bello della settimana. So was her tablecloth. So was the realization that someday soon, against all odds, my home will come. For now, one square meter of new free shelf space will certainly tide me over. After all, in this cittt, every square meter really does count.
