The first time I had to find an apartment during finals week was my freshman year at Florida State University. I sat in the commons room, watching "Friends" (which was still first-run then, 'cause I'm old), and coloring in a coloring book as a part of an elementary school-themed social my RA had designed to relieve the stress of exams. Right as I was decorating a particularly promising outline of a frog, my roommate rushed out into the hall.
"You're number 10,486!" she said, panting.
"No, I'm your roommate, Jacqui. How many exams did you have today?"
"Your housing number is 10,486," she said.
"Yeah, and...?"
"And that's not high enough for on-campus housing. We got rejected. When did you turn in your housing application?"
"Erm...."
In a few days I was hoofing my butt all over town, praying for an affordable place close to a bus stop and a grocery store. By the grace of God, I found a three-bedroom closet with an avocado green refrigerator and stove and an unheard of price tag of $260 a month.
This year I finally succumbed to that little devil that sits on the shoulder of many grad students-the one that tells people to take some time off, live in a big city and figure out if they really have any idea what it is that they're doing. And so, I again found myself writing a take-home final while trying to find an apartment. Only this time, the apartment was in New York City.
The first day I really needed to spend contemplating the function of adult hippocampal neurogenesis I spent reprinting paycheck stubs. Another I spent begging my parents to guarantee my rent. One more I spent copying tax forms, finding my admissions letter to Duke and losing my mind.
Had I never gone through the initial misery of apartment hunting in medium-sized, amply-acred Tallahassee, Florida, I would have been unquestionably overwhelmed by my experience with my first New York super, who lives on the ground floor and has practically requested DNA samples to ensure that I'll be a decent tenant.
And so I began to wonder to what extent Duke undergrads will be poorly served by Duke's requirement that all students live on campus for three years. For all the uses of such a policy, like safety and encouraging students to interact and focus on school, it falls short of offering Duke's promising students a real life education in dealing with credit checks, crazy roommates and incorrigible appliances.
In short, although students will be academically prepared to move to a big city, nothing but experience can prepare you to face a landlord who wants six months' rent and your firstborn as a guarantee you won't paint the walls green and rip out the cabinets.
I mean, hell, I wasn't prepared for that.
And so, if I could only offer five pieces of advice from my six-year apartment living frenzy, they would be these:
Be prepared for arguments about the kitchen, because I swear that's the only thing roommates ever argue about.
The best recipe for a roommate that argues about pots and pans is an understanding friend and enough booze to float the Titanic.
Should you end up with avocado green appliances, join them, for you cannot beat them, no matter how many red rugs and hand towels you toss their way.
If your stove has a habit of lighting itself on fire, buy a fire extinguisher. You're only gonna be able to blow it out so many times (four, in my case).
One last piece of advice, if I may-don't ever try to find an apartment during finals week. That's the dumbest idea I've ever heard.
Jacqui Detwiler is a graduate student in psychology and neuroscience. This is her final column.
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