It's a nice place to visit, but...
We are in the penthouse of this building, which houses a number of temporary housing units so prohibitively expensive that it would make your head spin. Apparently, our 3 bedroom duplex is the creme de la creme of high end corporate accomodations. I wouldn't know. I'm not even sure what exactly this place costs, nor would I be surprised to hear that no one else who is staying here knows either. This is the kind of place that big corporations foot the bill for, not individuals.
It sounded so good when this part of our relocation package was explained to me; a free family-sized apartment in the heart of London with weekly maid service. Why would I ever want to leave, I wondered. Now I know.
I want to leave because if one of my children doesn't get hurt on the steep spiral staircase that leads from our bedrooms up to the living room and kitchen, then certainly I will. I want to leave because there is no bathroom on the main living floor and Evan has suddenly decided that he wants to be a big boy who only uses the potty in London (see spiral staircase). I want to leave because the springs in our bed are arranged in such a way that it is physically impossible for me to arrange my body without at least 3 of them poking directly into my spine. I want to leave because the washing machine has already destroyed half of our meager wardrobe and its supposed "drying" function basically just makes my wet clothes hot. I want to leave because "the heart of London" turns out to be a business district with few shopping options, no parks or playgrounds to speak of and virtually nothing within walking distance that might entertain my children. But mainly, I want to leave because I'm itching for our new life to start, and that can't happen in a temporary place in an area we don't plan to call home.
My kids, who adapt easily (at least in word if not in deed), are now freely calling this place home, even correcting me if I use the word to describe our house in the States. They've easily accustomed themselves to our new surroundings and simply accepted them as fact, our new reality. But to me, this is not home. Home, if all goes according to plan, is a 3 bedroom flat in beautifully restored Victorian on a quiet, tree lined street just a few blocks from the kids' school. Home is the place I'm already mentally filling with our belongings, and home is the area where we'll finally set down some roots here in the UK. This? This is a lovely (albeit slightly hazzardous) place, but it's temporary housing. And I'm ready for permanent.
It sounded so good when this part of our relocation package was explained to me; a free family-sized apartment in the heart of London with weekly maid service. Why would I ever want to leave, I wondered. Now I know.
I want to leave because if one of my children doesn't get hurt on the steep spiral staircase that leads from our bedrooms up to the living room and kitchen, then certainly I will. I want to leave because there is no bathroom on the main living floor and Evan has suddenly decided that he wants to be a big boy who only uses the potty in London (see spiral staircase). I want to leave because the springs in our bed are arranged in such a way that it is physically impossible for me to arrange my body without at least 3 of them poking directly into my spine. I want to leave because the washing machine has already destroyed half of our meager wardrobe and its supposed "drying" function basically just makes my wet clothes hot. I want to leave because "the heart of London" turns out to be a business district with few shopping options, no parks or playgrounds to speak of and virtually nothing within walking distance that might entertain my children. But mainly, I want to leave because I'm itching for our new life to start, and that can't happen in a temporary place in an area we don't plan to call home.
My kids, who adapt easily (at least in word if not in deed), are now freely calling this place home, even correcting me if I use the word to describe our house in the States. They've easily accustomed themselves to our new surroundings and simply accepted them as fact, our new reality. But to me, this is not home. Home, if all goes according to plan, is a 3 bedroom flat in beautifully restored Victorian on a quiet, tree lined street just a few blocks from the kids' school. Home is the place I'm already mentally filling with our belongings, and home is the area where we'll finally set down some roots here in the UK. This? This is a lovely (albeit slightly hazzardous) place, but it's temporary housing. And I'm ready for permanent.
posted by Rebecca | 2:05 PM
2 Comments:
I do think temporary housing is a cruel, cruel joke. You're *almost* there, but you are decidedly *not* there. Even IF everything about it is perfect!
Kristy
In future years, you'll look back on this post, laugh, and play a game of Remember When?
At the present, though, it sounds frustrating as heck. Here's hoping you get your flat soon!
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