One day could find me sitting in front of a fan while texting a friend to see who's home feels more like hell; the inside temperatures soaring to 107 degrees (41.5 C). Another season I could be wrapped up in all the blankets I own, trying to keep warm as the inside temperatures plummet to 60 degrees (16 C). There are months when my house invites visitors- the four legged variety, which, consequently, keep me up at nights as they tap dance on my ceiling. Other times give way to smells emanating from the bathroom drainpipes, which I can not, nor would I want to identify.
Then, just when I'd think I have all of its idiosyncrasies figured out, it surprises me with another. My home has found pleasure keeping me on my toes, or cowering under the covers worried that someone may have broken in, when the crash that woke me from my sleep actually came from a picture frame it no longer wanted on one of its walls. It has played games, such as prohibiting me from completely turning the key in the door just to see how much I am willing to pay to enter. (The amount, in case you were wondering, is 70 Euros). Then there are the times the entire building has joined in on the act. Take the most recent occurrence, for example. The wooden door to the building thought it would be fun to suck up every last remaining drop of moisture in the country and, as the outside temperatures dropped below freezing, it expanded. It laughed, even amid its near destruction, as my neighbor struggled with it for minutes just to let me in, and a few days later it relished in triumph when, despite my best efforts, it wouldn't let me out - keeping me imprisoned in my own home.
But I've grown to love my little house which, over the four years, I've turned into a home. Someday I'm sure I'll even miss its geriatric quirks ... even if that someday is when I'm as old as it is.