Damien Galeone

The place is small. Really small. We’re in the kitchen-living room-wardrobe-closet-TV room. Burke is holding the dog, who is breathing on my neck. I am counting the flat owner’s nose hairs. Her husband is trying to turn around, but gets caught and breaks into tears. He raises his elbows and manages it. I can actively see him decide against a glass of water. I feel like I’m at the buffet table at an orgy. The realtor raises her hand and presses a portfolio to my midsection. The dog snorts.  

“Shall we go to the kitchen?”

She speaks in Czech so it takes me the requisite 21 seconds to understand. She turns to the left. “Here we are.”

The owners squeeze past us and go out onto the balcony. I think the woman is having a panic attack, but it turns out she’s just drinking.

Realtor: “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

21 seconds later. “Sure.”

Turns out the living room-kitchen was the spacious room. A room you could just go off on your own and wonder why you decided to buy a flat in the first place.

Buying a flat has been a very interesting experience in the same way that my first colonoscopy was. And with roughly the same physical discomfort and involved parts. I’m glad I’m having the experience so I can hobnob with others who have, but man do I really want it to be over. And when you’re buying a flat, they don’t give you anesthetic like when you get a colonoscopy.

I made an offer for the first flat we were interested in and was summarily ignored by the realtor until she told me they chose someone else. Lesson: they don’t negotiate, the offer you made is the offer they go with. The second flat we were interested in, we made an offer the next morning for the asking price. We were informed that someone else had made the same offer and the owner would make a choice. By ‘make a choice’ they meant ‘we’ll set up a Hunger Games race to the contract and see who wins’. So, basically the same. I lost (by 21 seconds).

The rest of the flats have been either so small that I envision Burke-me-dog-cat moving into a 40 meter space and the murder suicide that will quickly follow it. The others are so nice on paper that there has to be a catch – and there always is.

So, what’s the catch?

It’s an auction. The asking price (which is already stretching my budget) is just the jump off point. It’s going to be waaaaaay more expensive than that in the end.

So, what’s the catch?

You have to share the balcony with the next door neighbors. They’re nudists and diabetic. Oh, and they’re lepers.  

So, what’s the catch?

It’s underground. The ‘sky’ outside the window you see is a painting.

So, what’s the catch?

Crabs live in the tub. Small ones. Really small. I believe you call them ‘lice’.

So, what’s the catch?

It’s being haunted by the ghost of Gary Coleman. 1977 Gary Coleman. Get ready for a lot of ‘What you talkin’ bout, Willis?’ A lot of it. Oh, and he’s snacky.

It’s terrible, but at least it’s also frustrating and all-encompassing of my entire life. Like taking a job being rejected by random strangers and another job looking around other strangers’ houses while they watch me look around. Maybe the lice need a roommate. I wonder what the catch could be.