House to home

When you make the foolish mistake of opting for an unfurnished apartment, you find your life being sucked into a vortex of what resembles a spy triller. There are vast sums of money being thrown away, blonde exotic women who speak strange languages ( the Ikea ladies ) and international intrigue when it comes to the stuff that you ordered being actually delivered and installed. May be I should not be so ungrateful. A fellow expat has been waiting for his internet for a month, and Alice, the highly recommended internet provider mucked up his address twice and just did not turn up the third time. The last time he talked to me, he sounded more like Darth than Anakin.

Anyhow, the guys came in and set up everything. Pictures were hung. The dead skins of Shawn, Liam and Betsy were laid out on the kitchen benches and living room floor respectively. The books were up in shelf and the house was 90% in order.

My most favorite place is the kitchen.

The kitchen overlooks an old Jewish cemetery, which is apparently a tourist spot. Every day, I drink tea with my feet on the kitchen counter and watch hordes of tourists walk through the place. Through out the day, the church bells ring to mark the hour, soft enough to meld into the day. Apparently, one of the famous but not too famous German composers is buried under my window. And across the green stretch of the cemetery is the Jewish school .

The days when I work from home, I sit in the kitchen, sipping tea and sitting on the sheepskin. I have started cooking for myself, and the food is not too shabby. My vases are holding flowers, and I found out where the neighbourhood grocery stores are.

I believe my house is slowly become my home.