The Hunt

The summer before Junior year I took a quick trip to New Orleans with my soon to be roommate Josh in hopes of finding that perfect New Orleans three bedroom apartment.  We thought July was the right month to find an August lease, but we really had no idea.  This was our first venture out of the dorm and we didn’t know what to expect.  A mutual friend Allison was hardcore house hunting at the end of spring semester and her troubles and stress gave Josh and me the willies.  We decided that our only standards would be price.  Everything else we would be able to live with.  Low ceilings?  We’ll spend our time sitting down.  Flooding?  Those floors needed a cleaning anyway.  We would be flexible. 

My father was putting a lot of pressure on me to get the house situation organized fast so that I could get back home and help the family move.  We had been moving since May and we weren’t getting any closer to relocating.  The problem was that we were moving from a larger house to a smaller house.  Any space we are given, we will fill.  It should come as no surprise that around the time we started filling boxes, my mother started watching Hoarding: Buried Alive on TLC.  Without my bringing it up, she would approach me and start listing reasons why she wasn’t a hoarder.  “We could actually use all these things.  We’re just so busy that we don’t get the chance.”  Very convincing.  The house-hunting trip to New Orleans would be a nice break from the move.

My girlfriend didn’t know I was coming for a visit so after a surprise dinner the real hunting began.  Josh and I woke early and set out for Broadway.  We were about as prepared for a house hunt as we were for a real hunt.  No pencil.  No paper.  We were helpless against the ruthless For Rent signs.  But, thanks to modern technology, our phones recorded the phone numbers.  We collected five numbers at a time and crossed our fingers that we would remember which houses they went to.  Then we called.  Sometimes we got an answer, sometimes we left a message, and on some occasions we got to look inside the houses in question.

Then we arrived at Broadway and Hickory.  By this time Josh and I had gained the company of mutual friend Allison who would be looking on behalf of her boyfriend, our third roommate, Randy.  We called the number and spoke to the owner, Carlos, who said that his wife Maria would give us a tour.  We walked up to the front door where Maria greeted us with her less than perfect English.  She gave us the tour and we were happy.  It was exactly what we needed.  It didn’t have the New Orleans flair we were secretly hoping for, but it was small, simple, and, most importantly, cheap.  After the tour Maria said that rent was 400 a month, utilities included.  We asked her to repeat this a number of times and in different ways.  We didn’t want this amazing fact to be the unintentional lie that only a foreigner can make.  But she spoke correctly.  We had heard all we needed to hear.  Josh and I ran to the bank and came back to, what would become known as “The Hickory.”  Armed with money, we were ready to sign the lease.  But Carlos informed us that he didn’t use leases.  He has always preferred to just shake hands and whenever the tenants planned on moving out, just give him two months notice.  The simpler the better right?  We exchanged smiles and kind words and were off on our way.