Some people had big goals for senior year: writing a thesis, landing a sweet job, finally picking a major. As for me, well ... I just wanted to live off campus. I dreamed of living in a place where only my housemates would steal my food from the kitchen, where I could watch television without the constant presence of the New Hamp TV Man, where my floor didn't vibrate from the stereo of the boys downstairs with cretinous taste in music. Each night in my Topliff triple, after stepping on my roommate's face to climb into my bunkbed, the radiator softly sang me to sleep, and I dreamed of leaving dorm life far behind.
Sophomore summer was my first plunge into the wide wild world of the Hanover real estate market. The house was a bit of an eyesore (the large "condemned" signs didn't add much aesthetic value), but the lovely beige linoleum in the kitchen blinded us to its trivial flaws. It even came with pets! Although not exactly the puppy for which my roommate longed, the friendly rodent population kept us company. We lived happily in peaceful symbiosis: the mice feasted on our Cheerios and left dropping in the silverware drawer as a measure of thanks. I found a few broken mouse teeth in my Grape-Nuts one morning, but they apparently learned their lesson and stuck to less granite-like breakfast options.
Once we freed our fridge of fermented food, everything went swimmingly -- for almost a week. Then strange things started happening on School Street. When we tried to fix the hot water in the sink, the washing machine, shower, and toilet broke. Something crawled out of the bathtub drain and ate my shampoo. My housemate ventured into the basement one day and was never seen again. Late one night I peered out of the window and saw our landlord standing in the moonlit street. As he watched our house, he let out a malicious cackle that sent chills down my spine.
Happily, except for the unfortunately adventuresome basement explorer, we survived our summer in Amityville with only a few scars, and I've located myself in Hanover proper again for senior year. While scavenging the poster sale for artwork to complement an orange-and green living room, discovering creative uses for duct tape, and trying to hold up the bedroom ceiling with staples, I've been contemplating the joys of off-campus life. Besides the obvious advantage of being able to fit the entire sailing team in our living room, there are subtler pleasures. It's a great way to get to know your friends better, for example. You never really know a person until you're familiar with her dishwashing habits. Then there's the thrill of parking my car three feet from my house (even though I live farther from campus then A Lot). Archeological excavations in the cellar are always exciting, too. I discovered that our first house was originally a fraternity. After doing a bit of uranium-238 dating, I'm convinced that my present abode was once a Roman amphitheater.
Although the fact that the smoke alarm dangles from the ceiling by a single wire makes me pray that we never actually have a fire, the pride of ownership swells in my chest each time I look at the huge squooshy green velour couch in my living room. Sitting on my front porch in the sun today, munching on a mustard-pickle-salsa sandwich (there's no actual food in my refrigerator, but I do have 32 jars of condiments), I had a little urge to wax rhapsodic.
The shower curtain is covered with mold;
The windows are cracked, and I'm catching a cold.
The secondhand love seat smells faintly of beer,
But I feel like I'm home, if just for a year.
