When I moved to Oregon for graduate school, my first real apartment there was lovingly called the “Cottage” by its residents and collectively known as by the residents’ friends as the “Shithole.” As you’re naturally curious about this dual-personality domicile, you may read more about it: here. But the point I would like to emphasize is the house had no insulation. And under our front door that opened up to a back alley and an encroaching rose bush, there was a two inch gap between where the door ended and the floor began, letting in with the wind an army of slugs that would leave their slimy, shiny tracks behind as evidence in the morning. It should also be noted, that the only heater in the entire front section of the house was placed strategically next to the door that did not connect to the floor. You can only begin to imagine the screaming matches we had with our landlord (former hippie and friend of Ken Kesey turned slum lord).
Fast-forwarding to the last of four apartments I had in Oregon (every move was definitely a step up in the rental housing market). Not only did this house have a heater in every room (a rental requirement, but the only house I lived in that actually followed through on it), but it also had central heating, controlled by an electronic thermostat (much more modern than my childhood home’s nebulous knob marked with scotch tape and marker) that displayed the desired and actual temperatures. My economical roommate and I had daily arguments concerning the numbers on that display screen, except since this time I was paying the bill and not my parents… I thought about the situation somewhat differently.
But we were arguing about the heat when the outside temperature was in the 40s or 50. Now I am dealing with 60 -70 degree difference from those balmy days in Eugene. Today I’m excited because it is 0F on the streets instead of the recent -20-25F. But back to my window+heat, or rather window-heat, situation. I now have no control over how warm or not-warm it is in my apartment. This being Russia and not a farmhouse in rural Maryland or a duplex in college-town America, the heat is turned on by the whim of the government. Of course, it is on all day and all night, but choosing the actual temperature or an electronic display screen? Forget about it.
Still, even when I call to complain to my mother—who, if at home, is inevitably sitting on or near what we kids nicknamed “her friend,” a portable electronic heater that was her constant companion during our school days as well—she tells me to put on another a scarf or imagine living on the prairie and having to dig tunnels through the snow drifts to reach the outdoor toilet. She’s always had a knack for saying the right thing.