It didn’t take me long to arrange another viewing. Next day,
I was already stepping into the underground hell that got me to a nice quiet neighbourhood
in West London. Maybe a little too quiet, I thought.
I was wandering around a weirdly located playground and
checking the number plates on the houses . Before I even noticed the house number,
a builder leaning on his van pointed at a house in front of him, proving that
there had been a solid number of viewings.
I gingerly enter the house through its widely open door. The
man, who is clearly in the middle of giving a tour to a shy looking Asian girl,
waves me to join in. He shows a teeny-weeny kitchen, weirdly looking lounge
area (apparently, some people do use floral carpets as sofa covers) and a
small garden at the back – we look at all of these from one spot in the
stairwell. Now I wonder if there were any doors in that house at all.
The highlight of the viewing is Brandusa, Romanian house
owner. Wearing his sports jacket and a gold chain on his neck, the man reminds
me of some cheap mafia character. Very cheerfully, he explains that he just
came back from a small 2-month break back home with his wife, and hopes to rent
out the room until his next holiday. His next holiday starts tomorrow. Other 8
rooms in the house are occupied, but he is not sure who lives there. There is
no contract, and notice before moving out is a week. I see how the little Asian girl
shivers after realizing that this is not her dream house. Surprisingly, she
still writes down Brandusa’s phone number.
The tiny girl and I both leave the house at the same time. The
girl runs off as if the house was on fire. I go home grinning, because Brandusa
and his little landlord business brings me back to Eastern Europe more than I
could wish.
The decision isn’t hard to make – I delete Brandusa’s number as
soon as I get into the underground. I didn’t go 3000km to feel ‘at home’.
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