my castle

The windows have a constant layer of grime from the stream of trams and cars from the street below. The hot pipes in my closet should probably not be exposed. Someone has written the word "scream" on the wall of our living room in pencil (but I'm too afraid of what will happen if I erase it). One of our kitchen counters is held up by a single, sturdy Jupiler beer can.

Our elevator is circa 1958, and its floor was completely covered in water the other day when we had a particularly strong Belgian rainstorm. I am far too afraid to use our potentially lethal gas oven.

The saving grace of our apartment with character, the beautiful Moroccan lamps, are now sold.

And I think I'm in love.

After two days spent google translating a Dutch newspaper, it really seemed too good to be true. When we came to see the flat for the first time, Nacho and Laura, the previous tenants, ended up drinking wine with us and cooking us dinner. A supposed 15-minute visit turned into five hours. Their curly haired four year old rode her bike around the living room wearing a tutu and twirled in circles to Flemish singer Ann Christy's "Bla Bla Bla".

What I'm trying to say is that my couch is now officially open for business. Who wants to be the first to crash on it?

(Not counting almost me, the night of our housewarming party, when my bed was occupied by two very sleepy Belgian boys.)

Et moi, vraiment je t'aime....