What Should Be; What Is

When I was young, we took a family vacation to Lake San Cristobal in Colorado. I think that’s where I fell in love with mountains covered in trees and streams that weren’t filled with trash, runoff, or dead fish. For one reason or another, we left a few days early. We packed up and headed back to Sunnyvale, Texas. It was a long drive, and we reached Amarillo just as the sun slipped below the horizon. Yes, you can literally watch it hit the horizon because this part of Texas is flatter than a pancake.

We needed a place to stay for the night. I’m sure my parents were tired of hearing us argue in the back seat. We stopped at a hotel. Dad went in, hopeful. Dad came back out, defeated. Hotel was full. Something exciting was happening in Amarillo. I know, its hard to believe something exciting taking place in Amarillo. Same at the next. And the next. Finally, we pulled into a hotel that looked sketchy enough to have its own documentary series. As we sat in the car waiting, my mother glared at the building and said, “I’m sure they provide a whore with every room.” Her word. Not mine.

And at that moment, my innocent young mind lit up like a Christmas tree. I had never seen a whore. This could be my chance! Please, Dad, get the room! It turns out, the room was dirty and there was no whore on the bed. I was disappointed on both counts.

Now, what does this have to do with our migration to Uruguay, you ask? Oh, buckle up.

Finding a long-term apartment here can take up to three weeks between “Yes, you can have it” and “Here are your keys.” We were running out of time at Airbnb #2. The apartment wasn’t available longer, we had two dogs, and time was ticking faster than a broken clock on caffeine. We had two choices. We picked the one that looked decent enough in photos. and sounded nice. (Insert ominous music.)

On Monday, December 1, we moved into Airbnb #3. We reserved it for a whole month. Plenty of time to get settled, right? WRONG.

As soon as we arrived, we were greeted by an abandoned building across the street and a collection of businesses that can only be described as “vehicular graveyards.” While Mikey hauled the luggage upstairs, I stayed below with the dogs, who stared at me with “Are we dying?” eyes.

We waited for housekeeping to finish. Then up we went. Off the elevator, greeted by a metal gate—similar to the ones we see on tv that slam shut on a prisoner's cell. Mikey opened the gate, then the door. I walked in and immediately wondered who I pissed off in a past life.

The place was NOTHING like the photos. One room pretending to be a living/dining/sleeping/mental-breakdown space. Furniture included two twin beds serving as living room furniture (for when you need emotional separation), a table for four (no idea why), a TV stand, and a tiny desk they called a “workstation.” WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. Toto, we are not in Kansas. We are not even on the same planet. And as a welcoming gift, the room smelled like something died, decomposed, and repeated the cycle.

Mikey shut the door behind us, revealing the second half of this nightmare. Not any better. The kitchen fits exactly one person, and even then only if they inhale and think skinny thoughts. The bathroom? Let’s say “turning around” is a luxury. The one-bedroom bed is fine, but the pillows smelled like someone drooled on them for a decade. On Tuesday we went and bought our own pillows. But wait—there’s more!

Shortly after arriving, the host messaged to say, “Do not shut the bedroom door, it locks and cannot be reopened.” So no privacy for the next month. Fun! And yes, this was somehow not in the listing. I guess they thought “surprise escape-room challenge” was implied.

Then we discovered the sliding closet doors. They are stuck—not metaphorically, not emotionally—literally. You have to wedge your fingers in between the track and the trim to move them. Good thing I my nails are not currently painted or I’d be filing a lawsuit.

Then it came time to eat. Mikey got out plates and utensils. They were all dirty. Like had-never-touched-soap dirty. We now sanitize everything before we use it. Our next purchase is going to be a dish drain. Even after Mikey scrubbed it, it is nasty. I would not put even give it to my worst enemy as a gift. The washing machine? The lid came off in my hand. Who engineered this? Fisher-Price?

As night fell, I started wondering if we were about to star in a crime documentary. I messaged the host asking whether the neighborhood was safe. He said yes, but recommended we not go out after dark.

Cool cool cool.

Except the dogs wake us up at 3:30 AM every night (yes, this is their current routine), and they expect to go outside. You try ignoring a greyhound staring deeply into your soul.

In general, 98% of everything here is sticky. (And no, I’m not exaggerating. I would NEVER do that.)

So now you see the connection? Young me expected to see a whore in a motel room. Adult us expected a clean Airbnb. Both times—reality slapped us harder than Will Smith at the Oscars.

Oaks survived the move without having a panic attack. Probably induced by the mild sedative we gave her so she wouldn’t freak out during the suitcase shuffle. Lesson learned: photos lie, Airbnb lies, people lie.

To view photos of the apartment, please visit the gallery.

Thank you for making it this far. Until next time, be kind to one another and be safe.