Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Living on my Own: Finding Paradise in a Childhood Nightmare

When I was younger, I was always haunted by thoughts of failure. I had a vision of myself living in the worst part of town, in a small rental with peeling paint and broken gray tile, rusting exposed pipes and chipped enamel bathroom fixtures, in a building with broken windows, no lights but several drunks in the stairs—overall, a place covered in a mist of poverty and despair. That vision is now an accurate depiction of the apartment I’ve been living in for the past seven months.

As I wrote earlier, nearly all cities and towns of the former Soviet Union have the same feel—endless blocks of identical, usually five-story, concrete and cheaply constructed flats. These housing units were rapidly built in the late fifties and sixties under Nikita Khrushchev to provide every Soviet citizen with a home. Today, they are still called Khrushchyovki. The residential neighborhoods in which these structures are located usually contain plenty of open space between the buildings. The open space has a few trees, but is mostly leftover dirt from the construction. Yet these spaces are highly utilized by the residents to relax, beat carpets, play cards, gossip, and for the kids, to run around and play soccer. Despite resembling some of the worst American inner-city projects, these neighborhoods have much more of an “alive feel” than the one in which I grew up and actually remind me of the street scenes in photographs of old New York.

My apartment is located in such an area and is pretty typical. The entrance and stairwell are extremely sketch, dark, and falling apart. But once you open a door, a comfy and bright apartment is presented to you. Mine is two rooms (apartments are described by number of rooms, not bedrooms) with a kitchen and separated toilet and bath areas. The living room is basically the only room I occupy. Typically, it is long and narrow and it is decorated with brown floral print carpet, brown and black patterned chairs, and a brownish zebra print futon. There is also a circular white patio table that I use as a desk and satellite TV. At the far end there is a door that leads to my balcony (almost every apartment has a balcony) where I hang my clothes to dry. A few stuffed animals and other knick-knacks are thrown about, but my favorite piece of décor is a decorative wooden shaft about a foot tall and with a carved eagle head on top that conceals a knife. I call it “L.J.” My bedroom is a much smaller room with a double bed, a vanity table and mirror, and a closet. I rarely sleep in this room because in both winter and summer it is too hot.

The kitchen is perhaps my favorite place, most likely because it is here that I can finally prepare food that I like, in the quantity that I need, and at the times that I want. Against the wall there is a Soviet era stove, a washing machine (real Peace Corps, right?) with a single cabinet above, and a sink. Most of the room is taken up by a medium size table and wrap-around seating. The room has a comfortable nook feel and due to the juxtaposition of the stove, table, and seating I can cook a whole meal without having to even stand up.

The switch to my own place has been ideal, although I still have a close relationship with my host family. It gives me greater independence and offers me more challenges to overcome. I’ve had to deal with broken appliances, water shutoffs, and a hysterical neighbor pounding on my door at midnight yelling that I was flooding her apartment. And even though I am in a sense living a childhood nightmare, I couldn’t be happier about my surroundings.

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