My first two weeks in Austin were difficult. Being the person that I am, I did not make any living arrangements prior to moving as I assumed my time in Austin would be brief and I could take refuge in a co-op. I was staying in a hotel that had bugs crawling on the ceiling and where I had to wedge a piece of wood into the door to make it completely shut. I was in an undesirable area, as warned by a woman working the Subway vegetable assembly line across the street, paying a still-hefty nightly hotel fee, and had the curtains drawn at all times. I left the "Do Not Disturb" sign on my door for three days in which my room was not cleaned, and barely ate because I was too overwhelmed by the thought of venturing to find food.
I tried the co-ops, but each was a worse experience than the next. That is not to say anything negative about the Austin co-ops--I love the idea of co-ops, and when done correctly, they are an amazing asset to this city for young vagrants like myself. These co-ops, however, were full.
I had an incredible dinner at the first co-op, three days into Austin. Something like a pita with refried beans, fresh broccoli, avocado slices, and some amazing green vegan sauce. I met several friendly people who were interested in my story and willing to offer me any help. It was a great atmosphere except for the fact that there was pee all over the floor and the entire house smelled like feet and was housing too many people for my personal comfort. That, and the price was outrageous.
A week in, I was desperate, hungry, and hating Austin when I arrived at the next co-op.
I was standing outside at the front door, looking in through a window at what appeared to be an empty dining room and staircase. I thought about knocking on the door, but with no one around, who would have heard it? What would I say to the person who answered the door? How would I explain myself? Does this happen to them all the time? Is this how co-ops are supposed to work? Are they used to an influx of strangers wandering through their doors, eating their food, taking tours of the house, and then judging based on the pungency of urine throughout the house?
Should I even be in Austin?
I continued to stand and look through the window, trying to calm my nerves, and figure out what I was going to do when I saw someone who would hear my knock. Then the door opened, and a woman was startled to see someone standing in the doorway.
"Hi, I'm awkward," I said. "My name is Evey."
And I met Rose, my first friend in Austin.
