I broke into the old apartment. Metaphorically speaking, of course.


After digging up pictures to illustrate the recent post about on the old gas station, I unearthed pictures of my old apartment from university.

Who cares about Shark Week when it can be Julie’s Memories of Wolfville week?

Even though it was the most dreadful building known to humans (okay, not quite that bad), I still remember parts of it fondly.

Like the black mold colony that lived on my door.

The smoke that used to fill my bathroom from the downstairs tenants who did not always smoke cigarettes.

The way the wind blew the curtains in winter without the window even being open.

Ah, apartment life when you’re a student. Good times.

The exterior of the building was the worst. It looked like there should’ve been police tape around the scene.

This was Old Blue’s spot in the parking lot. And yes, the Tempo was named after the guy from Old School.
Don’t lean on the stair railings or you won’t make it.
Normally the clothing DID NOT hang from the balcony: this was a joke for my 25th birthday. The landlord didn’t get the joke and asked me to take the laundry down. Because I always hang 25 pairs of underwear and bloomers out on the line…

I Martha Stewarted up the inside with some paint and tiles. My cousin donated a carpet end to cover the mustard stuff that contained enough dirt to possibly contain Jimmy Hoffa.

Life is better without mustard carpet.
The table containing all of the plants came from the junk pile; I think another student used it for a desk (it’s actually a sewing table).

This was my bedroom (half of which was my office/library):

Where the essay magic happened!
Okay, I’ll be honest: as much Facebook magic happened as thesising. However, you can see my big arse dictionary has been fixed with duct tape. That’s hardcore.

And, of course, here’s the water closet.

Pink made my skin look better in the mirror.

Of course, the old apartment wasn’t ALL bad.

I had my own garden:

The herb garden.

And the superintendent was always game for a conversation (even though, bless her heart, she wore her nightdress 98% of the time) and often gave away free homemade food. Which, for a student, is like gold.

Also, I felt very worldly having international students make up the other 98% of the tenants (can you tell I’m making up my statistics?). There were many interesting odours which wafted into my apartment, most of them through the bathroom because of the faulty exhaust system of the building which I’m 98% sure exhausted into the attic, thus to my bathroom.

Building codes are more like guidelines, really.

After all, I totally had more than one route to escape (if flinging myself out through the second floor window counts).

And those stairs were not rotten—just the nails.

And those wrought iron railings?

Totally safe! You could lean against them and they wouldn’t wobble, no sirree. They would’ve held a sumo wrestler.

Oh, those memories.

Bless you, student apartment, for the chronic nasal drip I enjoy thanks to your mould and cigarette smoke. You were a girl’s best friend. If by best friend, I mean a vortex that sucked $340 plus utilities out of me every month.

Where would we be without student apartments?


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