I’ve mopped the floor with my pajama bottoms, retrieved a hair sample from a phantom refrigerator, discovered where the bread was kept by tenants-gone-by, and studied what my upstairs neighbor eats for supper. 72 hours in this little Minnesota river town has been nothing short of an adventure!
On Tuesday I was greeted by the Jolly Green Giant, a fitting size symbol for my quixotic quest of healing the world without losing my heart. The lump in my throat and stomach of butterflies swelled in size as I drove three hours west to my new 13-week home, an anxious and exciting transition back to travel physical therapy after a 4-month summer sabbatical to recover from burnout. Everything feels gigantic: change, possibility, growth.
My burgeoning car contents amounted to fifteen loads up the awkwardly spaced steps around the back of the apartment building. It took only three trips through the locked exterior door before I broke rank from my Type 1 “do right” personality and taped the door latch for a jury-rigged keyless entry. Eight trips later, someone with better morals fixed my work. I had most of the heavy things in already.
My pocket began to sing. “Shake your groove thing,” crooned Peaches & Herb, but my arms were too full for safe dancing. I returned the JD’s call after stashing my load, recollecting his sweatpants and slides look topped by a sprout of multidirectional silver and straw locks.
“Uh, it’s JD, the apartment guy. Maybe you can drag your feet a little on moving in to the kitchen and bathroom. That apartment wasn’t ready yet.”
I wasn’t completely surprised, since the refrigerator-sized cavity in the kitchen suggested something might be missing. I finished unloading the car, then drove off to do some homemaking shopping and food-finding while the apartment was readied.
Three hours later, I had a refrigerator, a new door jamb, a freshly covered bathroom vent, and the green light to finish settling in. Unfortunately the green light was not sufficient to illuminate bedroom and living room devoid of overhead lighting. I hid from November darkness by scrubbing the kitchen and fridge, where I found crumbs in the cabinet and a black hair glued to the bottom of the fridge shelf by a yellowish food-based adhesive. I also learned that cleaning solution solidifies on contact with an upright freezer, even when it hasn’t been plugged in “that long”. Satisfied by a kitchen coated in elbow grease, I groped my way around the bedroom to set up a cot for the night.
The mineral-stained bathtub boasts a border of caulking in multiple peeling shades of white, ivory, and green. I scrubbed it last night in anticipation of a refreshing shower this morning, and was very pleased to find good pressure and hot water. In fact, the pressure was sufficient to support an extracurricular side spout from the shower head. I watched the diminutive fountain cascade over the curtain rod and made mental note to contact the building manager later.
After finishing, I turned off the water, noting a dripping patch on the ceiling and figuring the rogue paint drips in the tub were from a recent water stain cover up. Pulling the curtain back, I let out a little shout as I beheld a puddle on the floor extending 5 feet from the bathtub. I’d left my pajamas on the floor, and learned that my flannel pants are a great chamois in a pinch. My bathroom floor got its mopping a little earlier than I’d planned!
On night number three, I took the energy to unpack the kitchen and make some really delicious curried soup. After lingering over my bowl for a few relaxing minutes, I pushed back from the table to finish kitchen cleanup.
I found the drip-dry cutting board lounging in four inches of standing water, seemingly eager for another bath. I’d given a heaping dose of baking soda and vinegar to the slow-moving drain the night before, but I could have sworn the sink was empty when I sat down to eat. Moments later, a plume of speckled graywater swelled and swirled upward from the drain, raising the water level by inches. I heard the water line above me close with a clunk, then a whoosh through the walls as the sink began to boil up with a white froth of soapy bubbles. A gift from above! The apartment deities accepted my offering of dirty dishes, I mused as I drafted a work request for the building manager.
I cleaned up my upstairs neighbors’ supper of macerated macaroni with salad and shredded cheese, trusting that it was much less soggy when they prepared it. Assured by the maintenance team that the plumber would be contacted first thing in the morning, I left for work after cleaning another greasy, clinging crumble from the sink walls. I’m so grateful rent frees me from maintenance tasks!
Sixty hours later, I took up sink archaeology once again. I’m not sure which foods turn into black flecks that smell of bile, but that’s what my neighbors passed to me during my weekend away.
I spotted an unfamiliar gleam on the countertop. Beginning a puddle scavenger hunt, I traced pools and rivers across the counter top, into the undersink cabinet, and onto a dry plain of oily residue extending fifteen feet across the floor into the dining area. As I squooshed (that’s squeegeeing with a saturated washcloth) the water from the counter into the sink, I sent an errant stream down the front of the cabinet. Chastising myself, I opened the drawer to discover a pile of dripping hot pads. I opened the other cabinet drawers: wrinkled receipts, sticky plastic bags, floating Tupperware. What a mess.
Two hours later, dishes were drip-drying in the bathtub; cabinet drawers were drained and sanitized; hot pads and towels were hand washed and hung to dry; and the floor was swept and mopped. I was tuckered. Wandering back into the kitchen, my dread rose as watery detritus once again climbed the walls of the sink. I hurried to move the dishes from the bathtub, fetching a wastebasket and beginning a bucket brigade from the kitchen to the bathtub, dripping my way across the once-clean floor.
I woke to the sound of a waterfall at 11:30 pm. Starting from my bed, I rushed into the kitchen to find a water park in the cabinets. What had felt like an adventure the evening before was now a weary slog as I wrung sour water from the floor and into a bucket. I struggled to fall back asleep after my midnight mopping, my ears tuned for water in the pipes… or worse, water out of the pipes.
I was worried about my return to clinic life, but that’s been the smallest of my giants! Who knew tilting at windmills would be accompanied by memoirs of the sea?
Conversations on El Camino 