Pale as Hail

My husband and I like to think we are urban people. We have fantasized over living in a large city in a small apartment, probably in Korea Town, putting unframed posters on our exposed brick walls and sizzling in the smell of kimchee. We think we are cultured enough to be the people who go to gallery openings and rooftop parties and, I don’t know, hang loose with the street youths. We think that’s who we are. Or at the very least, who we are prepared to become. New York, San Fransisco, we gotchu. We get you. But no, actually, we don’t. We are both from Utah. A cupcake of a state. Where the most crime we’ve ever seen was when the local cookie store was sued by Pillsbury for using the name “The Dough Girl.” And even still, we assume we are the cool kids who swear by local breweries (even though we don’t drink) and we are totally unique because we wear thick framed glasses that other people wouldn’t (even though they all do). As we have moved from the comforts of Utah Valley we realize we may not be the urban dwellers we thought we were. What caused the double take? What made us think our plan might not fit our personalities as well as we thought? It’s that tiny apartment we had in our mind. Because we live in that apartment. No, it’s not the small apartment in Little Korea and we won’t be smelling any kimchee through the walls. But it’s in Iceland. And it’s 230 sq ft.

I’m a worrier. And when an almost random trip to Iceland turned into a two year contract with an Icelandic school, my worrying became catatonic. Add that to the fact that we had exactly two months from Christian’s acceptance letter to the move-in date and my worrying became the envy of every actor in Masterpiece Theater. Really, Lifetime would have given me a made for tv movie had they seen my stress. To destress, I obsessed. I spent hours learning just enough Icelandic to find the word “rent” on Icelandic sites. I would wake up at 4am to see if any landlords would answer my desperate plea for a home. I wanted anything. I would accept any offer. Simply so that I could look up an address on Google Maps and start mapping my bus route to and from “home.” I panicked further as weeks went on with no apartment. I imagined moving into a foreign country with nothing but bags of belongings and no where to belong. I pictured heathens in hostels and losing my shampoo in public showers. Finally, while at the zoo with my 6 year old sister, a viking named Viktor came to the rescue with a 9 months lease for a basement apartment right downtown.

After seeing photos of the apartment and talking the renter down to a price we could comfortably afford, Christian and I began to talk ourselves through the compromises.

“Who even needs natural light?” -Mallory Poulsen, 7/21/15

“Yeah, It will be completely dark 4 months out of the year anyway!” -agreed a supportive Christian Poulsen, 7/21/15

“Not having an oven might make things complicated.” Christian Poulsen 7/23/15

“How many eggs do you think we could fit in that mini fridge?” said Mallory 7/23/15, who was guessing the answer was half a dozen, generously.

“I’m not sure, maybe we should keep looking…” Mallory/Christian (on multiple occasions)

“If you want it, the apartment is yours.” Viktor 7/31/15

“OH MY GOODNESS THANK YOU IT IS PERFECT I LOVE YOU.” said Mallory, basically. 7/31/15…

“Christian. I don’t think the bathroom even has a door.” Mallory, 8/11/15

We moved seven days later.

The apartment itself is pretty cool. It’s on the kind of colorful street where each house looks like a crayon straight out of the box. Exactly what Chris and I expected every Nordic street to look like. The apartment inside is white and bright and has an aesthetically pleasing radiator which will keep us all kinds of cozy in the winter and look fab in photos we send the fam. We’re also in IKEA territory so one hour after being handed our house keys we were sitting on sofas in IKEA’s miniature apartments smelling meatballs and making plans to nest the heck out of no square footage.

The apartment has everything we need and nothing we don’t. We have a mini-fridge underneath the table/shelf that is in between the “closet” (a clothes rack against the bed) and the “kitchen” (a sink, a hot plate, and exactly three shelves). The fridge comes with enough space for a full 24 hours worth of meals. As long as most of those meals do not include refrigerated items. To our surprise, it even has a freezer! Obviously by freezer I mean a shelf the size of a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. That pint cost us $11 here, but we were so sure that was the exact size of the freezer we bought it anyway for the photo op.

Our clothes fit in the dresser as long as you like that “so full you can’t close the drawers” vibe. And for the clothes that don’t fit we have the clothes rack that, when raised high enough, makes for an excellent make-shift wall to prevent me from stretching my arms while in the bed and grabbing that pint of Ben and Jerry’s while half asleep. Useful. We have just enough storage space under the bed to throw laundry and just enough storage under the stairs to throw a fit. There’s a hole in our wall that connects our apartment with the bottom of the building’s stairs. We’re embracing it. If the fumes from the paint cans left in there don’t kill us, it will make for a perfectly homey panic room.

We got our small urban appeal. We have a unique and wholly unnecessary floral molding on… some… parts of the ceiling. Those are complimented by painted exposed pipes and new hard wood floors. We have a kitchenette and enough room for an IKEA couch with awkward bulky wicker furniture that came with the place (it’s being removed, my designer husband couldn’t take it). And we have an above average view for a below ground apartment. What we don’t have is a bathroom door.

Now, I know my vows. I paid attention in marriage class. I’m cool with all that “in sickness” and “in health” business. But it’s the “in a 200 sq ft apartment sitting on the toilet with explosive diarrhea and no door” part of the intimacy contract I think we may have skimmed over during the ceremony. This particular scenario has not happened yet in our new home. But isn’t a healthy marriage prepared and focused for the future? And I'm telling the truth. There is nothing but a thin, stained sheet blocking the toilet from the kitchenette/bedroom/living room. It’s held up with zip ties. It must come down.

The bathroom is the coolest part of the apartment. It’s what really sold us on the place (back when we were younger and niave-er and thought there was a door). The bathroom is solid concrete with a small sink, those exposed pipes all us 90’s kids think is the coolest thing on the block, and a cantilevered toilet. Rad. Forget the fact that when I sit down on this hanging toilet my feet don’t touch the ground and ignore the fact that we have to squeegee the floor after we shower because the shower is just a spout in front of the toilet. It’s okay that there is no toilet paper holder because showering would only ruin it anyway. I can put it on the kitchen sink. The bathroom looks COOL and I’m way into multitasking! Who doesn’t need to pee in the shower occasionally? I CAN, the toilet is in the shower! And if I was feeling particularly productive I could stretch my arm out and make breakfast while I shower too. All those things are cool things! But the door, man. I really could use a bathroom door.

Our Icelandic friends warned us about living in the city and having to deal with noisy people. “We ARE those noisy people!” We thought out loud (very loud, because we are noisy). Christian and I were excited for the city being up all hours of the night with dance parties and surprise events and for all those cool urban neighbors up late listening to interesting music. We were like that, for sure! Because one time in Utah I came home late and ran into my upstairs neighbor who had come down in pajamas with a blanket wrapped around him. He asked if I would have my husband turn down the music because his wife couldn’t fall asleep… see? We ARE those loud urban people! (For emphasis on our delinquent behavior I will leave out the fact that it was only 9pm and his wife was 8 months pregnant.) But city noise is different, guys. It’s not High Violet played on medium before the sun has totally set. It’s drunken men smoking outside your window laughing about who will pee in your windowsill first. That’s life in the city. (This is happening IRL while I type.)

This place is small, it’s loud, and because I am a confused kid in my early 20’s, I think it’s all awesome. Because really, who wouldn’t trade a bathroom door for a mini fridge that’s in the bedroom? Oh, none of you? That’s okay. It’s just because you aren’t as urban as us.