Hello MTV, and Welcome to my Crib

Romans live small.  Kitchens are small, showers are small, beds are small.  There are no houses in Rome, only overcrowded apartments in overcrowded neighborhoods.  I knew this when coming to Rome.  I was ready for this lifestyle shift and to live like Romans do.  When I stepped into my apartment, a wave of assurance came over me, a recognition that I’d be okay living here.

We have one long hallway that connects all of the rooms, starting with our living room.  The living room is so big that furniture only takes up half of the room with the other half completely empty.  Moving down the hallway, there is the first bedroom and kitchen.  The kitchen is skinny and long, equipped with a fridge, freezer, oven, stove, and sink. 

Then comes the two bathrooms.  Both have the smallest showers I’ve ever seen.  They are so small that it is nearly impossible to raise your arms to shampoo your hair (and forget about shaving your legs in there).  One of the bathrooms has a tub, both have bidets, and both have windows that open up to our neighbors’ balcony – lovely.  The hallway bends to make an “L” shape, where the three other bedrooms lie. 

Almost all of the rooms have chandeliers and doors to the outside deck.  My room specifically has an orange, yellow, and green stained-glass window with a woman painted on it.  It took me weeks to notice that there is another woman in the background, painted in a dark red color.  She looks demonic while the woman in the front looks gentle and pure.  Based on the angle of the sun and time of day, the skin on the woman in the front changes color.  When the sun is directly behind the woman, her skin is pale.  When the sun is at an angle to the window, it is as dark as chocolate.

Our deck wraps around a quarter of the building, the entire length of our apartment.  Outside is our laundry machine, a small table, and a few drying racks.  Everyone else has a jungle on their deck – plants big and small, bushy, leafy, and bare.  Some have white, wooden stands for vines to grow on.  If I was staying for longer than a few months, I would spend hundreds of euro decorating my deck.  This is the one place where people can express themselves for passersby to see, so they make statements of their taste through floral decorations.

Seven of us live here.  It is the largest group of roommates in the program, staying in the largest apartment.  While the square footage is great, everything inside is small.  Our fridge is only slightly bigger than the minifridge I keep at college.  The inside of the washing machine is about a fourth of the size of an American one, and the chairs seem like their made for children.  My nightside table can only hold a small lamp, and the desk can only fit my roommate’s makeup.  However, one thing is supersized: the closets.  Our property manager must know her audience.

There are many little things I’ve learned to become accustomed to.  For one, the laundry cycle takes a minimum of three hours.  You read that right.  Three.  And if you forget to check the timing, it’ll run for nine.  Once the machine door is shut, it is locked.  It holds your clothes hostage, and can’t be opened even to throw a sock in. 

Dryers were only introduced to Italy five years ago, so most of the population hang-dries their clothes on the deck.  The whole process of doing laundry takes about two days, and your clothes come out feeling like cardboard no matter how much fabric softener you add.  When it’s cold and rainy, good luck getting them dry.

The door to get into our apartment has no handle, so you won’t get in if you don’t have a key.  I’ve come home without one, knowing the door was unlocked, but unable to open it because it’s just a wood board.  Locking and unlocking the door takes about ten turns of the key – extremely inconvenient in a hurry.  None of the doors close softly because there is no rubber padding inside the frame or a latch that hits first.  Instead, the wood bangs against the frame as it closes, as loud as a gunshot.

I have forgotten what regular elevators feel like.  The one in our building can fit four skinny people snuggly.  It moves extremely slow and unevenly, still rising when the doors open.  The elevator has become a bonding experience for my roommates and me.  We will cram as many people in there as possible, refusing the stairs by any means necessary.  Then, the slow ride up begins.  No one dares to speak, I feel a phone buzz against my stomach, and someone’s hand might be stuck in my hair, but it’s our new normal.

Our apartment is more than a living space to us.  It is a party pad, a central meeting point, and a safe haven to friends.  It’s hosted Bachelor nights, birthday parties, and photoshoots.  During the day, we do homework on the deck, and at night, we cook dinner while listening to Italian music.  It can get dirty, it can get cramped, and it can get loud.  But in a country where we are outsiders, it is ours.