Well, well, well. What a tale to tell.
I spent Saturday ill and Sunday lounging around in the park not doing a whole lot, apart from a flat viewing that was in a perfect location but was a bit grotty. The landlord was trying to advertise his room to me (with all his stuff in it), but it's ok, he was moving out this week to go record a CD in Argentina....but yesterday I started getting super antsy to find a place and yesterday the pressure was on. I got an email from the guy saying to phone him asap because someone else was interested and 'had something important to ask me.' So I spent the morning running round like a headless chicken trying to find a cash machine that would actually let me take cash out so I could buy a phone to phone him. When I did he told me that someone else was about to sign. Like a fool, I said this other guy could have it because I was about to go look somewhere else....
And when I got there, it was, well.... very, very cosy. And in the basement. The guy was nice, but errr...he was charging 350 a month for a dingy, dark shoebox to share with him. Not cool. Sorry mate, busy day, another appointment....
Which was even more disastrous. I got lost trying to find the place, and in the advert it said no.16 of this street advertised at 360 a month, so there I was buzzing no.16, and when he didn't pick up I phoned him and he asked me where I was. "Oh 18!" he said. Err, ok...off I went to 18. I told him it said 16 in the advert, and he said, "Oh yeah I've got lots of flats" (or I think that's what he said. His accent was horrible and he talked way too fast.) He showed me around and I was rather impressed, it looked much nicer than the last 2 places. "So what is your price range?" he asked. "About 300-400," I said, as I'd stated in my advert and was within his price advertised. He then looked at me like I'd sprouted another 5 or so heads. It then dawned on me with crushing horror that somehow he thought I was looking to buy the entire flat. Only then did he tell me the room at no.16 advertised had already gone.Oh language barriers. Aren't they fun.
Awkward was not the word. I smiled politely and backed away slowly, then ran, and would've just sat down in the middle of Latina and cried if I didn't have another appointment to go to that a friend in the hostel had found advertised on Facebook, and was already late for.
I met this last guy outside Moncloa who mercifully spoke English, and specialised in finding student accommodation for the local university. He showed me a flat that was 5 minutes walk from where I needed to be, it was clean, not overcrowded as it was only 3 bedrooms. It was slightly above my price range but by that point I really would've cried if I'd gone through all that and not had a result. I took it instantly, ignoring the fact that I was advised it might have a 'party atmosphere'.... but as a local British expat told me this morning on the subject of flat hunting, you really can't have it all....
But hey. It's something. You couldn't pay me a million to repeat the stress and horror that was yesterday, but I celebrated my success at the end of it by joining in with the hostel's drinking games and going out for tapas and beers with a couple of Londoner inter-railers, and today I plan to do very little. Pictures of the flat to come when I move in tomorrow.
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