Storms and roaches.

We have had TWO major storms in the last week that have knocked out my power, knocked over countless trees, BENT street signs, and left me in a state of Blanche Dubois level rattled nerves.

Last night when the second storm came through and knocked the power out within a second of landing, I seriously wanted to run out onto the street, and scream at the heavens, "WHAT IS HAPPENING!??"

Luckily I didn't do this or I probably would have been hit in the head with a tree limb.

But here's the thing. It's bad enough to lose power and AC when it's 103 freaking degrees outside. But it is another nightmare entirely to lose power when you're in the middle of a roach infestation, which I am. That's partly why I haven't written in nearly two weeks, because almost all of my free time has been spent slaying roaches.

This is just the latest in the string of fun surprises I've encountered in my tenement apartment building. In addition to the violent neighbors, the coke head neighbors (they start partying at 8am, on Thursdays, I can think of no other explanation), the constantly arguing neighbors, the constantly smoking neighbors, and the general dilapidation of my building, I came home from Malawi to discover it's also a roach vacation destination. Every roach in a 5 mile vicinity apparently summers here. They've brought station wagons full of beach chairs and coolers. They've brought their extended families. Each one has settled in with a good book and a glass of iced tea.

I came home to find them all over my kitchen and bathroom. And after screaming and running around in circles for a while, I decided to go into extermination mode. I've fogged. I've put out traps. I've sprayed enough insecticide to expose myself to 17 different kinds of cancer.

And for brief beautiful moments I'll think I've done it and they're all gone. I'll go hours without seeing one. But then I reach for my salt and one comes scurrying out, or open my trash can and see three crawling around, or cook something on the stove and see them all come creeping out from their hiding places, sniffing at the food, and I realize this is a losing battle. I can only keep them at bay, because I live surrounded by people who are happy to live in filth. It doesn't matter how clean my apartment is, how diligently I avoid leaving any food out or how frequently I take out my trash. For every roach I kill, ten more from my next door neighbor's apartment saunter over.

And this was my state last night at 11pm when the power suddenly went off. Let me tell you. There is nothing more terrifying than suddenly being plunged in the dark when you have a roach problem. Roaches are vampires. They gather strength from the dark. They get fearless and strut across the floor and along walls. I felt like I was in a horror movie, faced with an apartment full of vengeful roaches who are angry at that giant who keeps shrieking and spraying them with chemicals or smushing their loved ones with paper towels.

This is not the kind of relaxing summer evening I had envisioned. And seriously mother nature? These storms need to stop. I don't know what Richmond did to deserve such frequent beatings. I don't know if this is global warming or the coming of the apocalypse or if God just really, really hates us and our stupid trees.

But enough. No more wind, no more rain, and for God's sake no more power outages. Because if the roaches don't do me in then Richmond's drivers (who still, STILL, do not understand the four way stop situation at an out power light) certainly will.

Malawi (Part One)

The word that comes to mind when I think of Malawi is gentle. Everything I experienced, everything I saw over the course of my two and a half weeks there exists in my memory in gentle shades and tones. It's a developing/third world country, but it's not like the other developing nations I've been to. It's not hard or broken. It doesn't feel like the raw, open wound of Port-au-Prince or the screaming poverty of urban India. 

Malawi may be a developing nation, but it's soft and whole, happy and kind. Its slogan is "the warm heart of Africa" and as hokey and touristy as that phrase is, the unexpected thing is that it fits. 

After a bumpy start to the journey which forced me to entirely rebook my flight the night before I left, and stops in Addis Ababa and the Congo,  I made it safely to Lilongwe, Malawi's capital.

Lilongwe is the capital but it's nowhere near the size of most capital cities. It's sprawling, dotted with business and shopping districts, but like the rest of the nation it's still filled with wide open spaces of rural land. We were only in Lilongwe for one night before leaving the next morning for the Habitat affiliate in Mulanje, an hour or so away from Blantyre in the south-east corner of Malawi. 

Our night in Lilongwe is notable mostly for introducing me to my wonderful Habitat team. People sometimes ask me how I could travel by myself to places like Malawi or Thailand, go so far from home without knowing someone on the trip with me. And the reason is because when I travel without the safety net of someone from my life, it's so much easier to open yourself up to the people you meet. You have to rely on the people you're with, and people go from strangers to friends in the matter of minutes. It's very much the summer camp experience, where the process of forming bonds is sped up to the point where you can spend weeks with someone and feel like you know them better than someone you've known for years. 

I love Richmond, and I love having it as a home base. I love my friends and family here. But there's a whole world of people out there, from backgrounds and lifestyles that I don't see every day in my life here. One of the many wonderful things about this trip was that I got to be surrounded by people who were different from me, who lived in different places, had grown up in different parts of the country, and who had completely different life experiences. It's good to see that. It's good to be reminded that not everyone fits into the little boxes we often surround ourselves with. 

We had people from PA, LA, San Francisco, NYC, DC, LA, Canada, Australia, and London. We had lawyers, bankers, architects, and students. I've been on trips like this where there are people in the group who get on my last nerve and drive me up the wall by the end of the trip. But this team was just an all together amazing group of people, especially my roomate for the entire two and a half weeks (including six nights in a tent), Shabana, a truly cool Canadian girl (my first Canadian friend!) who in some ways was so different from me but in other ways was just like me.

In Lilongwe we also met our local Habitat coordinator, Jacquie. The best way I can think to describe Jacquie and the wonderful job she did taking care of us, is that whenever she was around you felt this calming, maternal presence fill the room. She is probably not too much older than me, but she emanated that  universal Mom warmth. She's a strong, independent woman in a country where that is much harder to achieve than in the US. She told us stories of growing up in a family where the men were always served meals first and where the women had to cook, and how wrong that felt to her. In a place like the US, it's so easy for a woman to find her voice and independence. In a country like Malawi, it's still often a struggle. Which makes it all the more inspiring and impressive that Jacquie did just that, found her voice and her strength, the courage to say that she wanted more for her life, for her daughter's life. She is a single mom who is also helping to raise her late sister's child, and her job with Habitat often takes her away from her kids. But through her job she dedicates her time and energy to help the people in her country have safe, decent places to live. Basically she's a super hero and an inspiration, and I'm so happy to have met her.

Our Habitat group with Jacquie (front, center) at the hotel in Lilongwe

With the group fully assembled we left Lilongwe on Sunday to head to Mulanje. We were told it was a 4-5 hour drive. Really it was an 8 hour drive. By the end of the trip whenever we were told a time estimate we learned to multiply it by at least 2x, to account for what is often referred to as Africa time. 

I didn't mind the drive, because it meant I could watch Malawi out the window for 8 hours. It was both what I expected and nothing like I expected, the wide open plains and space of Africa in my mind, along with unexpected mountains and endless hills. The roads are paved and safe, but travel is slow because of the constant police road blocks, every half hour or so. The speed limits are also incredibly low, and our poor driver, George, got a ticket for going 2km over (they told us it was likely because the police officer saw a bus full of foreigners and figured the driver could afford it).

Toward the end of the drive, Mount Mulanje came into view. At first it was a indistinct blur of rock on the horizon, but as we got closer it became more defined, a striking jolt of ancient, cloud covered stone rising abruptly from the flat earth around it.

We made a turn off the main road, and crept up into the bottom of the mountain toward our hotel, Kara O'Mula Country Lodge. I did not expect a great deal from our hotel. I was ready for no hot water, possibly bucket showers, shared, dorm style rooms. What I got when I stepped off the bus into the chilly evening air (we were there during their winter, which, surprise, is actually COLD) was absolutely stunning. The view up the mountain was Mount Mulanje's rocky, craggy peak. The view from the mountain was equally breathtaking, lush green tea plantations with smaller mountains and hills in every direction. The hotel was set on a ledge, with a restaurant and bar at the bottom and smaller bungalows and rooms sprinkled higher up on the hillside. 

Me and Shabana's room was on the top floor

I cannot think of a more beautiful place to stay. The staff lined up waiting for us as we clamored off the bus, all with big smiles on their faces. George, the hotel manager, welcomed each of us, and for the remainder of our stay he would be there every day and night. He was the ultimate gentleman, always dressed crisply in a suit, always patiently ready for any request or question. After we got to our rooms and put on warmer clothing, we grabbed some Carlsburg's (the official beer of Malawi) and sat at a table overlooking the view.

We ate our first dinner in the hotel's restaurant, the first of many dinners where I ate in vast quantities and very, very well, and then huddled near the hotel's front desk, where there was internet reception and everyone with iphones and ipads (not I) checked emails and Facebook. But mostly we talked, chatted about all of the random and varied things that people chat about when they don't know the details of each other's lives. We also talked in detail about travel, about the places we've been, the places we still wanted to go. In my normal life, in a room I'm often one of the people who has traveled internationally the most. In this group I was basically a travel newbie. It felt inspiring and invigorating to hear about all of the places these people have been. Some of them were on their 7th or 8th Habitat trip and had been to places as varied as Mongolia and Jordan, Sri Lanka and Uganda. The universal thing with everyone on this trip was that no matter how many places we'd each individually been, we were all junkies, all addicted and hopelessly smitten and starry eyed with travel, with the experience of going somewhere completely new. 

It was so lovely to share this obsession with everyone on this trip, to exchange stories, to dream up future trips, to obsess over REI as a travel supply destination, or compare notes on airlines. My love for travel never goes away, but sometimes it loses a little of its fire if I go long enough without a trip. Malawi completely ignited it again, made everything I love about travel come alive in vibrant color and detail, like coming up for air after a long time under water. It felt like a homecoming in that way, because I was back doing my favorite thing in the world, and able to talk endlessly about travel in a way I can never do at home without annoying the crap out of everyone I know. But our Habitat team let each other drone endlessly on about past trips, let each other exchange memories of our highest highs and lowest lows, because we knew, because even a second hand story about travel, to someone who can't live without it, is beautiful and sparkling to hear.

I went to bed that night under my mosquito net already so grateful for what I had experienced, for the people I had met. And this was only day two. 

But of course all of this is preamble for when the real core of my trip began, with the next day and the beginning of our build in a nearby village. Of course that is a story deserving of its own long-whinded space, so stay tuned. 

Malawi bound.

"DSDGKJSD:KLJGKDSG:KDSJLK:SFKL:NK:LDGNK:NXCKV:N"

That is what the inside of my brain sounds like right now.

Because holy balls. I mean HOLY HOLY balls.

Let's backtrack four hours. I was all settled in for a relaxing evening at my parent's house before I left tomorrow for two plus weeks in Malawi, Africa. I'd had a glass of wine, a nice supper. I was ready for a second glass of wine, some TV, maybe a nice book in bed. I had tomorrow all planned out-sleep in, eat a relaxing breakfast pastry at Can Can, maybe do a short run before I would catch my shuttle to Dulles for my 6pm flight.

"Why don't you print your boarding pass?" suggested my Mother.

My mother is a wise woman so I thought, why not? I hadn't gotten an email from the airline with a link to a boarding pass, but I looked at the email from when I first booked and saw that I could print the boarding pass within 24 hours of my flight's departure. I went onto the KLM-Royal Dutch Airline's (partnered with Delta and Kenyan Airlines-everyone involved in this debacle should be named here), typed in my booking number, click, la de la di la.

And then a message-innocuous enough-there has been a change in the flight schedule, call a toll free number to find out what the change is. I thought that it couldn't be a major change. There was no way. If it had been a major change (say more than a 20 minute time difference), they would have had to call me or at the very least email me. Text? Right? RIGHT?

So I call, am put on hold, and then told that my second leg of the trip, my flight from Kenya to Malawi, the flight that would get me to Lilongwe, Malawi on the 26th so I could leave with my team the morning of the 27th to get to our build site a day's drive away, that flight had been CANCELLED.

Not delayed. Not re-routed. Cancelled. Because there weren't enough people on it. I could take the same flight a day later, putting me in Malawi the afternoon of the 27th, well after my team would have left Lilongwe.

And this is when I thought, oh no. Not this. Not this again. I have been plagued by issues in all of my international travel. I love to travel, truly, madly, deeply. But it does not love me. I'm beginning to think it hates me. Because this shit always happens to me.

But I bucked myself up. There was another flight leaving DC tomorrow, with some of my team members on it that would get to Lilongwe even earlier on the 26th. KLM had screwed me over, so KLM was damn sure going to get me on that other flight, free of charge.

I may have used the words "international humanitarian mission" when pleading my case. I'm not proud of this.

I spent the next two hours on the phone with a woman who works for Delta. Our conversation went like this.

Me: "I need to get on this other flight. I need to get on this other flight. I need to get on this other flight. Or my team will leave and I'll be left to find my own way through the bush of Malawi filled with lions and tigers and VICIOUS HIPPOS"

Delta rep: "I'm so sorry M'am. Will you hold?"

30 minutes of muzak later.

Delta rep: "M'am?"

Me: Yes? YES?! Are you there? Is this a human? Can you please talk to me? How do I get on this other flight? How we we fix this? Just talk to me please. We don't even have to talk about my flight. We can talk about the weather! Or, or our favorite TV shows. Just don't leave me. Please don't leave me!"

Delta rep: "M'am I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. Will you please hold?"

30 more minutes of muzak:

Delta rep: "M'am?"

Me: silent weeping into the phone

Finally I get her on the phone for more than 30 seconds and she tries to confirm with me the new flight. She reads out all of the same details I have, with all the right connections until she gets to:

"And then from Ethiopia to Afghanistan. From Afghanistan to Malawi."

Me: ummmmm?

Delta rep: "Please hold."

So I spend the next 30 minutes of muzak trying to come to terms with the fact that I would no longer be flying through Amsterdam but through an active war zone. It could be fun? An adventure? The president does it every once in a while. Kathy Griffin did it I think. I could do it!

Then she's back, two hours into the conversation to tell me that it would not be possible for them to book me on this flight because they don't have an "agreement" with Ethiopian Airlines. It took her TWO HOURS to figure out that they don't have an agreement and that they couldn't book me on the new flight. TWO HOURS.

Which left me up, to be vulgar, shit creek once again. I tried to go online to book the Ethiopian Airlines flight myself but no website lets you book less than 2 days out from the departure. Finally I call Ethiopian Airlines, find out there's room on the flight, and that they are NOT flying through scenic Kabul.

They are flying through the Congo. Which is waaaaaay nicer.

And now I am sitting here, typing this, with my (third) glass of wine, trying to calm my jangled nerves.

These things happen to me. I wish I knew why. It is simply a fact of life. Other people have smooth voyages, get upgrades, frolic through sun-dappled airports.

I get large portions of my journey cancelled out of the blue without any kind of notification, three hours on the phone with what I think now may have actually been a tape recorder set to say three words-M'am, sorry, and hold.

These things happen to me every time I travel.

And yet, in spite of it all, in spite of the tension head aches and the pleading with sales representatives, I still love travel.

I'm still so sure in the rightness of it. Tonight I'm a ball of nervous energy. I have plenty of worries and fears and anxieties. I had them even before this debacle. I'm going to Africa tomorrow and it terrifies me. Because with my luck, all manner of minor catastrophes will befall me. More than likely I will get into some kind of incident with an ornery giraffe.

But that's okay. I understand now, that I shouldn't use fear as an excuse to run away from things, but as proof that I'm going in the right direction, as a friend instead of an enemy.

The absolute best things I've done in my life have been the scariest things I've done in my life.

And tonight, paired with all of my excitement for the next two and a half weeks, is also that same fear.
Which is how I know, unequivocally and profoundly, that what I'm doing is right.

I'll see you all in two and a half weeks :)

Weekending.

I cannot adequately express how incredible it is to have weekends again, weekends where I am not constantly nagged by stress and the need for studying and school work. This is my first real, lengthy break since 2010. And it feels awesome.

This past weekend was full to the brim. Monday night I ventured to Brown's Island for the Dominion RiverRock Mud Run. Despite being a Richmonder I had never experience RiverRock before. And I'm so sorry for this, because it is a good time, good people, just good everything.

The run itself was more fun than a race has a right to be. I'm starting to get more interested in "fun" runs-runs with a twist or gimmick, especially shorter runs, because well, at a certain point you get tired of running in a circle like a hamster.

This run was definitely different than any other I had done. There were tons of kids for one, and I'm happy to say I managed not to knock down any of them (the paths were very narrow!). We started at the Tredegar Civil War Center and ran across the car part of the Lee Bridge. After that I literally cannot say where we went. I am not super familiar with the off-road paths along the river, so thank God I was following other people the whole time. If not I may have ended up in North Carolina. Or floating down the river.

Speaking of the river the race promised that we would go "through" it. I was initially alarmed because the river that goes through downtown is full of death rapids and rocks. But then I saw all the eight year olds at the start line, and realized that we would not be forging the river ala Oregon Trail (I always drowned all of my people! Damn my pride for not waiting for the ferry!) Also because Dominion already has one lawsuit on their hands, I don't think they want anymore. So what we did was hop into the river off of a muddy bank, walk in a teeny, tiny semi-circle bordered by a rope with the river up to our chests, and then climb back up. Silly, sure. But also fun, and more importantly, refreshing.

Near the end we crossed the pedestrian suspension bridge underneath the Lee Bridge.

I have never been on this bridge, so when I first got on it, I thought, OH DEAR GOD I AM ABOUT TO DIE. If you haven't been on this bridge, here's what you should know before you walk on it, and which I did not know before I ran on it. It sways. Like major, hard to move in a straight line, swaying. I managed not to start screaming like a maniac when I was reassured this was a normal phenomenon. But I also picked up my pace to get the hell off of it. Because I do not like the bridge beneath me to move.

Despite being a 3-miler this was actually a pretty challenging run. Lots of hills. Lots of narrow, rocky trails (my lower legs and ankles are sore-which has never happened, not even after the half-marathon-definitely used my stabilizing muscles on this run). We got to the end on Brown's Island (this part is kind of funny-because the race goes through the festival and isn't completely blocked off, so you run past lots of bemused people in nice clothing, with their beer and food, wondering what all these wet, sweaty, muddy freaks are doing running past them). And then we got  to the MUD PIT OF DOOOOOOOOM.

Okay not really. I was picturing a mud pit of doom that would represent an epic battle of wills between me and fate, or something. Instead I got to this:

So instead of shaking my fist at the gods and roaring in defiance, I stopped, giggled, and internally went "awww." I mean is this not the most adorable, little mud pit you've ever seen. Don't you want to wrap it up in a blanket, stick a knit cap on it, and rock it to sleep.

Needless to say I mad it through it. I also reminded my boyfriend halfway through that if he splashed me with mud in my face I would drown him in my righteous anger.

I don't look very muddy but my lower half is caked in it. We hosed off and changed (um, Dominion RiverRock, next year you might want to rethink having the ladies' changing tent in full view of all of the people using the hoses-because every time a new woman entered that tent and opened up the flap to get in-all of those people got a nice show of some naked, very muddy flesh).

And then we collected our free stuff (isn't that one of the best part of races-the free swag?) and our drink ticket (how every run should end) and headed back to Brown's Island to enjoy the festivities. It was such a gorgeous night. I had that post workout endorphin high. I had a Blue Moon in my hand. Dogs were flying through the air.

No literally.

And as if life needed to get better, just as I uttered the words, "I'm hungry," I saw this beautiful sight.

I got my usual chicken gauntlet (American, Mexican, and Asian style), and we sat down in the grass, listened to the great live band, and people watched (so many adorable dogs and babies my heart almost exploded).

Eventually we tore ourselves away from the food, beer, music, scenery, and flying dogs, and headed back to shower and get ready to go out for my friend, Ellen's, birthday. We went to Balliceux, where I've been to eat dinner before, but never as a bar. And let's just say I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

I never have cocktails but I felt in a celebratory mood so I ordered the Hemingway's Revenge (largely because of the name). It had rum, grapefruit juice, and Tahitian vanilla syrup and it was absurdly delicious. I honestly hate grapefruits and grapefruit juice but for some reason I love grapefruit juice in cocktails. I think it's because I don't like sweet cocktails so grapefruit juice gives that nice sour, almost bitter flavor to balance out the sweetness of ingredients like vanilla.

We danced to a DJ who played 70s soul music. Apparently it was some guest DJ from NYC, and I know nothing about DJ'ing but I think this one was good because I can guarantee almost no one in there knew 80% of the songs. And yet everyone in there was dancing, because they were that good and that catchy.

Saturday we ate brunch at the front patio of the Continental (fast becoming one of my favorite Richmond spots-even though every time I go there I feel guilty about not going to the newly relocated Phil's). After that I lazed around (just a teensy bit hungover, there's a reason a drink is named after Hemingway-that man could drink enough alcohol to kill a moose) until the evening when we went to see Dessa Rose at Firehouse.

I thought there were some issues with the plot structure and tone (possibly because it is a musical about slavery, not exactly a subject that screams "JAZZ HANDS"), but I still thoroughly enjoyed myself because the music was absolutely killer and the vocals of the actors were jar dropping. Definitely worth the price of admission.

I really missed weekends like this-when I can sleep in and watch TV and do nothing productive and not feel even slightly guilty about it. And thank GOD, I have a summer break full of them.

My Scarlett O'Hara moment.

Okay so I may not have shot a Yankee, but I experienced an incident that I can only refer to the closest I may ever (hopefully) get to a Scarlett O'Hara moment.

To give a little background information, I live in a crack house.

Okay that may be a slight exaggeration, but sometimes it feels that way. When I decided to sign the lease on this apartment last fall, it all seemed like sunshine and daises. I didn't pay much attention to the state of the interior of my building, because I loved my apartment and I loved the location. It was on Monument Avenue, the street in Richmond I've always dreamed of living on, and in a historic, handsome nearly 100 year old building. The property management people seemed nice and had a legitimate office, and they had multiple buildings throughout the city.

Then I moved in and I realized I may not have been very thorough on my search (I was blinded by the wood floors and the giant windows!). First of all, the building allows smoking indoors, something I never even considered asking about because until now I've only lived in beautiful Charleston houses (divided into duplexes). As most modern buildings do not allow this (because it ruins them, forever making them smell like stale cigarettes), I think every smoker in Richmond decided to move in here. And they smoke, constantly. And each time they smoke, each cigarette (or other) they light, my apartment immediately fills up with that intoxicating scent of cancer.

I hate it. I've bought so many candles, you have no idea. But nothing covers up that smell. Also I realized that no one has done maintenance on this building in perhaps 50 years. The paint is peeling everywhere, especially the exterior windows and doors. The carpets in the hallways are mangy and disgusting. The paint on the walls is seven different shades of ugly and also peeling. A railing is broken that leads up the marble entrance stairs (and my God, as the daughter of a lawyer, sister of a lawyer, cousin of a lawyer, and sister-in-law of a lawyer-my family=lots of lawyers, all I can think when I see that is a giant, red, flashing LAWSUIT).

We have five super cans for a building with over 40 units. You do the math. This means that by every Friday (trash comes on Monday) there is garbage all over the sidewalk-pizza and beer boxes, random pieces of furniture, food strewn about. I am positive that there are multiple families of rats living there and living the life.

There are always cigarette stubs in the hallways and on the sidewalk in front of the building. My neighbors leave random crap in the halls-including a huge television that has been outside my door for almost a month.

And the neighbors, oh the neighbors. Some of them may be very nice and normal. Those are probably the ones I don't see often, because they work and live quiet, dignified lives. But my downstairs neighbors are just the worst. They don't appear to work or go to school or do anything at all with their lives other than play the most stereotypical getting high musical imaginable at volumes so loud that it shakes my own apartment and the inside of my brain. They often get into shouting matches, and many times it sounds like a one person shouting match-just a shrieked chorus of curse words that would make sailors blush. I've heard weeping and crashing and singing and every other loud, obnoxious sound imaginable. They've broken their windows, shattering glass onto the sidewalk below.

It hurts my heart that this building has been neglected and abused by both its owners and its occupants. I've long admired the building when I've driven or run past. It's this stately, solid structure, a piece of the street's architecture and character, and it should have been taken care of. It's earned it by being around for all of these decades. I think of the tenants who lived here in the 20s or 40s or 60s, of all the people it's seen come through its doors.

And I don't understand why my slumlords  landlords have let it decay. Or actually I do understand. Their business model is to put zero money into the property (or as scant as possible) and collect (the admittedly cheap) rent. I just don't like it. I think this business model attracts sketchy tenants, as my mother wisely pointed out to me (four months after I moved in), people who don't care about their surroundings, who don't care if their buildings fall down around them, as long as they can get high and drink and listen to loud music.

I do care about my surroundings. I just was high on wood floors and dishwashers and a big living room and $615 a month rent (with gas and water and trash!), and didn't see it at the time.

Which brings me to the events of last week.

I came home from babysitting around 10:30, strolled up to my buildings entrance doors (two very large, very heavy, glass doors) and paused.

One of the doors had its glass smashed to bits and looked like this.

I stopped for a moment, as one does. I was a bit perplexed as to how the door got in this state, but it was late and I didn't have the brain power to ponder it for too long. I walked up to my apartment, and not even 5 seconds after I closed and locked my door I heard the distinctive sound of more glass breaking. I looked out my window and saw a worker's truck parked outside with a ladder on top. Huh, I thought. Maybe my building actually sent someone promptly to fix the door. The maintenance guy is probably just busting out the remaining shards of glass.

But then I saw a younger man step to the driver's door, get in, and peel away. 

That son of a you know what had just smashed the other door.

This is when Scarlett took over. I didn't think. I didn't process. I just flung open my door and ran down the stairs, dialing 911 as I went. This is what I found.

I didn't care that it was 11pm and I was alone. I didn't care that whoever did it might come back. My building was just attacked, and I took it personally. I was pissed. I had to stop myself from chasing after the guy on foot.

Now this may not sound dramatic, but honestly until that moment I would have assumed my choice of action would have been to hide in my apartment. But as soon as I realized what had happened, all I wanted to do was make sure it stopped, make sure whoever did it was caught. I gave all the information to the nice 911 dispatcher as calmly as I could (probably not calmly). Some of my neighbors came out (all boys, all who trickled out of their doors after I did).

I have no idea if the police got involved. They never showed up. The building fixed the doors in a couple of days (even they could not ignore the flashing red LAWSUIT presented by massive, ready to stab someone, shards of glass hanging in the breeze).

And I'm still pissed. Apparently the guy was yelling "Nicole" as he did this. I've listened to countless screaming fights outside my window between a guy and a girl, and methinks the two could be related. I'm alternately angry at this "Nicole" and scared for her if this guy is her boyfriend/ex-boyfriend/stalker.

Mostly I'm disapointed, that my poor building, already in such rough shape, was further beat up, and that because of the type of people in this building, no one is all that shocked or outraged.

I'm secretly a little pleased that my response to this situation was not to cower but to charge and defend (may not be the wisest course of action, strictly speaking). But I should have known. By virtue of my Southern heritage, that reaction is firmly in my blood. I put down roots the second my feet touch the ground, and I did that here, even in the short five months since I moved in. I love places and homes and land to an absurd, probably unhealthy extent, to the extent that I hurt when my place hurts, that I feel where I live is an extension of myself and respond to an attack on where I live as an attack on myself.

It's why I could never let a building I owned decay or fall apart, why I'm so angry that my leasing agency does just that to save money, why I'm so angry that this little punk took a crowbar to my doors, why I'm so frustrated that some of my neighbors don't care at all about the state of their surroundings.

I love my apartment and this building and think it could be great again, if shown just a little care and attention, but I think my days in it may be numbered when my lease runs out. Because I simply can't live in a place where people (both owners and tenants) don't respect where they live.

Maybe that makes me uptight and high maintenance. But mostly I think it makes me Southern and sentimental and yes, very stubborn.

And in that way Scarlett and I have a lot in common, minus the gun violence.