we watched a lot of "house hunters international," my parents and i. over new year's weekend, when we were waiting for the disruption for which we've spent the last four months bracing. like, hours of it. punctuated by brief half-hour breaks for shoddier shows like "ghosts of america" and "secrets of the smithsonian."
but mostly it was "house hunters international." and so we watched, trying to deduce how much of this reality tv was real and what was just for show. we emerged from this viewing binge with a deep-seated dislike of our countrymen.
all these people who had the very great luxury of moving abroad and then complained about small appliances, turned their noses at awkwardly placed cabinets and whined that foreign living rooms weren't nearly big enough for the sectionals they were inexplicably bringing in from america. yeah, those people suck.
we listened to their bitching with disdain. and yet...
i'm temporarily living in this teeny tiny fabulous apartment on the ground floor of a house owned by an incredibly sweet russian family.
let's take a moment to appreciate the absurdity of that sentence because, well, yeah. crazy.
and yet perfect.
i've always wanted to live abroad. and i've always been keenly aware that life abroad is different from life in america. i swear i'm not one of those bitchy "house hunters international" peeps. but i do think of them every time i sit on the toilet and re-realize that- without stretching in the slightest- i could pull a loaf of bread from the oven.