A day in the life

I’ve discovered the hard way that if I take a shower any later than 7:45am, there will be no hot water left in my building’s hot water heater. Apparently everyone in my building takes a shower at the same time and our synchronicity drains the hot water reserves, so if you’re not in the shower before 7:45, you’re out of luck until about 10am. This fact always escapes me on days like today, when I’ve hit the snooze button three or four times and am so bleary when I get into the bathroom that I can barely see the faucet. Maintaining a Zen attitude about cold showers on a rainy Thursday morning is difficult to say the least, especially since the radiator-type heaters in the apartment are constantly jacked up to tropical levels and I can’t help but wonder why some of that heat can’t be transferred to the water tanks ahead of time. That way, lazy cranks like me won’t feel like the building is taunting them for sleeping late by withholding hot water privileges.

When I’m not in complete morning grouch mode, I love the place I live. It’s one of those post-war brick piles so typical of Cambridge, the kind that’s been subdivided so many times over the years that you can trace its layers like a tree. There’s a seven-inch gap between my front door and the hallway wall where you can see four or five different pieces of wall that have been tacked together in a sort of time capsule of renovation. I won’t even get into the creepy, maze-like basement that feels like something out of a horror movie.

The building is primarily populated by graduate students at Harvard, Tufts or Lesley, which means that it’s basically a glorified dorm. Considering how overpriced the apartments are, I can see how the laidback atmosphere would drive your typical Pottery Barn acolyte insane (even though everyone has progressed past the point of throwing loud keg parties). But for me it’s extremely comforting. The walls are so thin that I can hear my next door neighbor playing his guitar, and the couple down the hall blasting their stereo, or the people two floors down laughing at an episode of Sex and the City. Even when I’m home by myself I never feel alone. When I walk in the front door at the end of the day, the hallway always smells slightly of pot, which in some ways is as welcoming as the scent of cooking food or laundry in the dryer. My roommate and I haven’t figured out who the smokers are but when we do, you can bet we’ll be knocking on their door looking for a handout. It’s the Cambridge equivalent of the duplex in Singles (although I have yet to find a neighbor as cute as Campbell Scott). People in the building borrow each other’s snow shovels, visitor parking permits, sugar and flour. We bonded in the street after the big blizzard snowed everyone’s car in under 4 feet of snow. The dog owners all know each other, and everyone with a pet has posted a cute picture of their furry friend on their front door so that, if there’s a fire, the firemen will know to save the animals, too.