I will soon live in a place called "Heritage House"
Last weekend I finally secured a place to live for next semester. It's a one-bedroom in a place called the English Quarter. It's decently far away from school, meaning I will have to take the bus everyday, but is bright and airy and has AC and a full-sized stove. I've decided that for a place of my own I can try real hard to not throw up on my classmates every morning on the way to school.
The whole process was one of those ridiculous-this-could-only-happen-on-Saba moments. I called the landlord and asked to see the place the next day- she said to call her back the next day. I call her back the next day and she says “fine, ok, call Mack.” I don't really understand who Mack is, but I call him and tell him what I want. He says “Ok, fine, but I'm at the hospital right now. Let me call you back.” He seems pretty nonchalant about the whole “being in the hospital” thing, so I go with it. He calls back about 20 minutes later and says he will pick us (us = me and my roommate) up at the Big Rock. He doesn't say how we're going to recognize each other, where precisely we're going, nothing.... But, again, it's Saba, so I go with it. I recognize him when he gets to the grocery store, because he is clearly an upper semester that has a much more Anglo name than “Mack.” It turns out his name is something like Matt or Mark, but it's just a tribute to how much I can't understand anyone's accent here that I got “Mack.” He only seems moderately sick and just buys cold medicine from the Big Rock, so the hospital was clearly not that helpful... Anyways, he shows us the apartment, it's nice, I decide to go with it. It only took like 4 more phone calls to the landlady to finally sign the lease. No big deal.