‘‘So this is it,’’ he said as the representative of a cleverly, but not too cleverly, named temporary housing agent gestured broadly at what would be my 32 square meter kingdom. A bed filled the corner. Its mattress visibly sagged in the middle and I could already imagine a bad night in another bed that wasn’t mine. Other than that, the room contained two tables, two chairs, a large couch, a dresser, and a place to hang some clothes, without any hangers. The kitchen was better off and featured four stoves and an oven without any oven plates. A cheap flat-screen TV occupied the top of the dresser. ‘‘All the essentials’’, I thought to myself ruefully.
‘‘Rent is 1390 euros and due before the end of each month. If you miss a payment, we’ll have to add 25 euro for every day that you’re late.’’
‘‘We’ll have to. Naturally, you don’t have a choice. The Gods of Rent themselves come down from heaven, or up from hell rather when a tenant misses a rent payment.’’
He corrected his hipster-esque tie and grabbed his phone out of his pocket.
‘‘Just double checking that, just a sec.’’ He held out his finger to what I assumed was supposed to be me, but I was too busy figuring out what the stains on the walls were. Best not to dwell.
‘‘Deposit will be three months, so that’s 4170 euros, but I’ll round that down to 4000 for you. You can pay in cash if you want. I’d prefer that actually. But a bank transfer will work as well I guess.’’
He smiled as he said it. He genuinely believed he was doing me a favor. Taking away a large sum of cash which I cannot put away towards something more productive just so that it can sit on a mostly unused account of some scummy landlord who does not even live in the city. I looked back at the man and decided that reciprocating the smile was probably the best course of action here. You’d never know when you would need his benevolent help.
‘‘Great. All sounds great. I’ll do the bank transfer. What’s your account number? I’ll send it over right now.’’
The smile started hurting my face and possibly something else as well, so I pretended to bury myself in my phone. As I navigated to my bank’s app (a neobank of some renown, as moving countries is not something that traditional banks like very much), he droned out his bank account number. Thirty seconds a swipe of the thumb later and I was over 4000 euros lighter. Minimalism á la Européene pur sang. He reached out his hand and I reciprocated. Sure, I was just made another victim of unaffordable housing and driven deeper into the hole that’s called ‘‘You will never be able to afford a place to fucking buy’’, but at least I would not be homeless. Living on the richest continent on Earth had its advantages.
As I closed the door behind my benevolent benefactor, I dropped down on the bed, ready to fall away into its musty mattress that undoubtedly has seen more action than me, but it didn’t give. It was a hard mattress with a soft spot in the middle. Enough to bury my head in and sink away, at least mentally, as I was trying to deal with the fact that I have moved to my fourteenth apartment in five years, in six different countries, with this being the seventh. It’s funny how your choices for a country are seemingly so random, yet they become more defined as time passes.
‘‘Is the language easy to learn?’’
‘‘What’s the coffee scene like?’’
‘‘Does it have a good connected airport, to home?’’
That last question is not one to dwell on for too long. Home is a fickle concept for a self-declared nomad. As the modern Europolitan, a limited version of the cosmopolitan, with less philosophy and more remote work in overpriced coffee places with faux-jazz music, one does not need a home. The bosom of mother Europe is what engenders the feeling of belonging. As locals decry your lack of integration for learning the language poorly and preferring a steak over whatever the local variety of sausage is, you look beyond petty national interests and see more than what they seem because you have seen more. It’s like visiting the natives back in the 19th century, without the bringing of diseases. But no matter how much of an international air you bring along with you, they have something you are truly lacking.
A home.
Anyway, time to get up. Lidl is around the corner and open until 9 and if that fails, one can always go for that hallmark of European cuisine; a döner.
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