There’s no end to the kinds of fun we have here.

6 06 2007

Along the same lines as the time I broke my foot while walking across a flat street, I’m not really sure about how to start explaining this post.

 You’d think that if your living room floods and the nearest source of water is maybe six meters away, there might be some kind of evidence as to where the water came from. Maybe the sink would be overflowing, or, god forbid, the toilet. Maybe there would be water collected in several rooms, maybe there would be a trail of it from the washing machine to the livingroom, leaving behind several pairs of sopping wet high heels and destroyed books.

In my case, yesterday, there was none of this. There was nothing of anything in my living room except for water. There was no water on the porch, there was no water anywhere except for my sunken living room. There was no water on the ceiling, which would indicate a leak from above. The corners of all of my walls were dry, meaning it wasn’t soaking in from the sides of the apartment. There was a solid collection of dust everywhere else, which means no water or cleaning fluids had touched anything for quite sometime, and which gave me a sense of relief since it was exactly like I’d left it. Nothing was destroyed, the sofa was completely dry, the table too. Everything except for the floor and the rug were completely normal.

I had been highly absorbed in reading my latest credit card statement and walking toward the patio doors to water the plant family when, after I took my shoes off, I stepped onto the rug and into a puddle of water soaking my sock all the way through. I began the normal inspection of the rooms, trying to find out where the water had come from and there was no hint, no clue at all that it had come from anywhere. It was as if someone had entered my apartment and dumped bucket after bucket of cold water onto my rug and then left. The water had collected solely in the center of the room, and when I lifted the rug, I realized just how much there was. I swept it all out of the room onto the porch and down the drain and then hung the rug out to drip. There won’t be any drying of that thing for several days, considering how cold it is and how few hours of sun there are each day.

The porteiro from the building came up to look and he was just as confused as I was. He’d told me that the woman next door had left her washing machine running and came back to a flood that day, but how that water got into my apartment is beyond me. Like I said, there was dust everywhere near every opening of my apartment, which means that the water didn’t come through my doors from her apartment. (I am not making my apartment sound very clean. Because it’s not.)

Everything’s fine as of this morning; no water anywhere. It was just a very strange thing that left me much more amused than it did frustrated. Who comes home to a living room full of water with no clue how it got there? I would have much preferred coming home to a care package or to flowers or something, but, hey. You take what you can get.




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