Home away from home: the inevitable objects

The homes of non-resident students can be recognized immediately (furniture dating back fifty years earlier, grit floors like those of the grandmother, hygienic conditions not exactly textbook), but there are some objects that dispel any doubt. Here’s what they are.

Glasses “borrowed” from bars.
The pieces in the kitchen of an off-site student are all different from each other. Something was made available by the owner of the house who, moved with compassion, recovered somewhere some cups with floral motifs and bought a set of knives that do not cut; something else was left by the magnanimous previous tenants and those before, a legacy of pots and chopping boards that is handed down from one lease to another; and something else was bought by the visiting parents, horrified at the idea that their son had a single encrusted baking pan. Finally, there are the beer mugs, the wine glasses, the low and wide whiskey glasses and the narrow ones for the bitter. The table of a fuorisede is a jumble of glasses of all kinds, united by a single characteristic: they all come from the bars in the area. I wouldn’t call it theft, I’d rather say loan for use.

The drying rack for clothes always between the feet.
An off-site student is as likely to find a balcony home as he is to get a paid internship or meet love on Tinder, that is, very few. The dryer hypothesis has never even contemplated it, since even having a working washing machine seems almost a miracle. Thus, he is forced to use that instrument of the devil which is called a drying rack. Uncomfortable and bulky (and at the same time never big enough), the drying rack never goes on vacation: one roommate doesn’t have time to put it away, another is ready to put it back in the hallway to put his fresh t-shirts and jeans to dry of laundry. Eventually, everyone learns to recognize everyone’s underwear, and the drying rack becomes almost one of the family.

The empty bottles from a party six months ago.
Between parties, dinners and aperitifs, the homes of the off-site students are cemeteries of empty bottles, which accumulate around until they are transformed into pieces of furniture. Eventually one of the roommates bravely immolates himself, picks them up and throws them into the nearest dumpster, realizing that the operation took four minutes in all (including the 30 seconds it took to put on his shoes and the other 30 to go down the stairs to the building). Despite this, history is destined to repeat itself: a new, large array of discount bottles of beer, wine and spirits will form, and it will be a century before anyone decides to do something about it. And again, and again, and again, practically indefinitely.

The dead basil seedling.
Off-site students are used to a diet that is not exactly home-cooked: poor ready-made sauces, cans of tuna in oil, frozen pizza and sushi at home for special occasions. Yet, at some point, they decide that they absolutely need a basil plant (or rosemary, or sage, or thyme): fresh aromatic herbs are quite another thing, you know. Needless to say, the vegetable will have a very short life, but its jar will remain on the windowsill indefinitely, as an everlasting memory of what happens when you are convinced you have a green thumb. Let’s face it, a student home without a dead plant on the windowsill is like a sky without stars.

The slate to give vent to passive-aggressive instincts.
Another object present in all the homes of non-resident students is the magnetic board hanging from the fridge, purchased with many good intentions at the beginning of the cohabitation and soon became a concentrate of passive-aggression between roommates. After a couple of weeks, loving phrases like “I’ve made a cake, help yourself, see you for lunch” and “Tonight movie and dinner?” they give way to veiled accusations and sarcastic digs (strictly accompanied by smiley faces) on the dirty dishes in the sink, the finished detergent and the bills still to be paid.