Wrong.
Situation: Needing an apartment within two days, I was desperately cruising every flat share and apartment site available to the internet world. Given the lack of time, the only promising prospect I found was willing to meet with me at 12 that day. And I was feeling good about this one…
40 min before meeting: Get so wrapped up in reading a blog about a woman's journey to marriage that I cry and lose my head and all sense of time. Ack, the typical sappiness of a woman. Lets just say it was a very moving article and induced daydreaming about weddings and photos and men and….
crap. Should have left for that apartment viewing 30 minutes ago. Okay okay, wipe the running makeup off my face, pull up google maps for a rough estimate of the street that place was on…
Good, only a 40 minute walk. Sounds refreshing. I have about 35 minutes. Walk fast.
25 mins before meeting: Didn't make it but a block or two before deciding I’d rather not walk, but take a tram to the neighbourhood. Still feeling sappy, you see.
Waste ten minutes looking through the lists of streets and directions in a different language. Oh lord, forget it, I’m walking.
Drift one block further and see a BIGGER tram station, this must have a good map. You guys, this is just painful.
10 mins till meeting: Waste another 15 minutes trying to flag down a taxi. I’ve never done this before, but definitely know how—I’ve seen the movies. I’ve seen how those savvy New Yorkers’ hold their thumbs out, the science looks simple. So stand with my toes danglin over the curb, and inconspicuously give the taxi drivers’ meaningful looks. Bat the eyelashes. They weren’t taking the hints. So then make a small gesture with my hands, like ya, me over here. That doesn’t work either. Why not wave your arms like a baboon then? To no avail. Shoot, even standing beneath the TAXI sign isn’t working.
Meeting Time: Exasperated with the lack of empathy from cabby baffoons, I find a coffee shop. The kind barista’s at Costa Coffee were willing to call a cab for me (since apparently in Europe the taxi’s are allergic to pulling up to a curb, good lord). Wait FIFTEEN minutes for a taxi and then decide—against my moral compass—to leave the coffee shop. *gasp*. The nice barista lady glared at me from the door, I could feel her eyes burning my back as I walked away… Oh it was so awkward. Check that off the list of coffee shops I’m welcome at.
45 mins late for meeting: Meander the streets in search of the Metro--apparently my destination had nothing to do with the Tram. Also, hide from all taxi’s now because I know one of them is ticked off and hunting for the girl who ditched Costa. This is a good 30 minutes.
90 minutes late for meeting: Alas, the light in the tunnel—I have found the metro, (the right one and everything). Only an hour and half late. That’s forgivable yes?
Get on the right bus, feeling pretty good about myself...
Curveball. Asked the elderly gentlemen sitting beside me if he knows where the stop is. You know, for the confirmation. Like when he undoubtedly says yes, I am free to pat my smart self on the back.
With big surprised eyes and his strong Ukrainian accent he struggles, “You on wrong bus, your directions bad, wrong place.”
Two hours late for meeting: Instead of trusting my gut and sticking with the bus that I was told to get on--no, I throw reason aside. After all, this Ukraine man, he lives here, he knows more than me. He directs me off of the bus. As he stumbles through conversation, I find out wonderful things about his life that have nothing to do with my house hunt…he’s a very intelligent man, a physicist of some kind, his son is a surgeon, his wife is a doctor, his mom was a doctor, his favourite tense is Present Perfect.
I’m not kidding, he really said that.
He gets his English-Speaking-Surgeon-30-something son on the phone so I can speak with someone who understands. The surgeon-son is looking at the internet maps (which, I have yet to believe truly work) and is telling me where I need to go.
Conversing with a Ukraine stranger on the phone about maps and roads was definitely on the itinerary. Check that off my bucket list!
The poor soul gives me the WRONG directions, and by now, I am so completely lost and hopeless I want to sit down and cry. But the pleasant old man —Victor— is trying hard to help me and interact. Don’t cry.
3 hours late for meeting (at this point, what IS the point?): An hour goes by, I have discovered parts of Prague I didn’t want to discover, my throat is dry and Victor is more determined than me to find this elusive street, Jaurisova. So you can imagine the sheer joy when he grabs my shoulder and points at a rusted-out sign. THE sign. The ONE. Ahhh I almost can’t hold back my pace up the lane, looking for 7. Seven seven seven ah THERE it is.
Bustle up to the door ready to charge in, I’m so ready for this to be over—
But the sad, heavy realisation sets over me…out of these 20 buttons I have the option to press, I have not a clue what her last name is.
Not a sad clue. And she’s no longer home.
Plot twist: The next day I returned to the apartment (successfully), fell in love with it, and took it on the spot. Victor, the sweetest old man you could ever meet, wants to hire me for English lessons. And right now, I am writing to you from inside my cozy room, looking out over my balcony towards the park that is the front yard.
If I could have peeked inside a magic mirror and seen the future, my anxiety and stress would have looked silly and out of place. I wouldn't have cried and I surely wouldn't have been short with Victor. But we don't get magic mirrors or crystal balls, and google maps doesn't cover our life layout. I think as time ticks along, I’m finding that it’s not as important to know where you are headed, as it is to be comfortable NOT knowing, and yet still making the best of each moment.
Finding people like Victor and treasuring those moments, we all have those moments, is what is important. That is what builds our life maps.
Not before he takes my hand, and kisses it, saying “you, very beautiful woman”.