In a town like Madison, we do a lot of moving. Once we get tired of one place (or run out of rent money, let’s be honest), we’re off to the next shitty hole-in-the-wall apartment our parents kind of want to cry about when they visit. Considering how mobile we, as a student body, are, you’d think that we’d be used to it by now. I’ve found this is certainly not the case.
Last year, I lived in an apartment near the “Sophomore Slums” neighborhood (which is such a farce of a name—what kind of slum has heated underground parking?). After nine months of sleeping with earplugs in and yelling at bros across a courtyard for playing Rusko at 8 a.m. on a Sunday, I was ready for something a little more off the beaten path.
Off-campus housing is a tricky situation in this town, and where you live almost always guarantees certain problems and certain perks. Living in the Vilas neighborhood? Prepare to gain at least 10 pounds as a direct result of the McDonald’s walk-up window. Living off Langdon? Shitty house remixes of “Call Me Maybe” will be audible ‘til 5 a.m. Living in what the new Apple Maps calls “Miffland?” One day, if you’re lucky, Montee Ball will be getting handcuffed in your front yard.
When I took the plunge and signed my lease, I visualized a serene, tranquil Mansion Hill abode. Preferably, it would be a lot like an actual mansion, and have a nook complete with a waterfall, a large leather armchair and an attractive-but-doesn’t-know-it barista making me coffee every morning. Needless to say, it wasn’t all I hoped it would be.
Lack of waterfall and barista aside, the major disappointment was the realization that the walls were paper thin. As I attempted to sleep through my first night in the place with earplugs and a verified fortress of pillows around my ears, I rued the day that I chose an apartment at the top of a hill on a busy street (gettin’ those cars into third gear apparently isn’t easy).
However, it wasn’t until this last weekend that my roommate and I realized the comedic benefit of our situation—if we are ever sober and awake at 2 a.m., we become the audience to a litany of lovers’ quarrels, girl fights and drunken jabber.
This weekend’s entertainment was the argument between a couple who had decided to leave a party early to lecture each other about how much they had sacrificed for the other’s benefit. Interspersed in their accusations were indicators of a highly entertaining night, like “I gave you everything I had, everything… and then you threw me to the ground and stole my fucking dog!” Oh, how I’d love to be a fly on the wall at that party.
Another surprise transition lay in moving from a third-floor apartment to a first-floor one, with bedroom windows looking directly onto the alley (where this aforementioned fight occurred) at ground level. Combined with my inability to budget proper lighting into my expenses, my need to keep the blinds open has resulted in several neighbors, homeless people and maintenance folks seeing me in my birthday suit.
Grace is not an adjective I would choose to describe myself with, nor do I keep my room incredibly clean. So when the stray woman walking her dog or neighbor taking their garbage out catches a glimpse of me in the nude, I have more than once acted upon my impulse to run, tripped over something and ended up facedown on the floor of my room. Speed and dexterity are my middle names, what can I say.
Considering I am more than a month into living in my new abode, I have a feeling that these moving pains may be something I’ll have to get used to. Maybe they’re a part of every new place you live. But I sure as hell am not getting thrown to the ground and getting my fucking dog stolen.
Like your neighbors’ quarrels with a side of stolen dog? Email Riley at rbeggin@dailycardinal.com and maybe she’ll invite you over for the show. But probs not.
