Squatter

Squatter;

3. to settle on or occupy property, esp. otherwise unoccupied property, without any title, right, or payment of rent.

The hostel had finally drove me nuts -- Christopher Reed (a past hosteller who I'd met in Victoria would have said that I was suffering from a bad case of hostel-ite-is). It had come to the point where I couldn't stand my over night shifts, and didn't even want to talk to anyone -- imagine, me not wanting to talk?! I suppose, like any place the politics were beginning to get to me. He said, she said .... did you know who... etc. It's difficult to avoid such politics, especially when you live at your place of work. Things had just gotten messy. So... the wheels had begun to turn.

Desperate to get out I jumped at the first chance of life on the outside -- I suppose I had been blinded by my eagerness. There were two guys who were older, working constantly and had asked me if I would share a house with them -- little did I know.

July 13th -- Friday July 13th, it was the day where I packed my bag (yeah, bag....doesn't sound so good without the plural), anyway, packed my bag and was heading for life on the outside. I felt like I was being parolled, or at the very least, leaving home again. I was just so excited.

Kensington -sounds nice- this was the area that we'd moved into. Because one of the guys had lived in Liverpool before he said this area wasn't so bad. Meanwhile, on my way home at nights I'd been mistaken for a prostitute -- as the main drag for prostitutes was on walk back home. Now ... Liverpool is a bit of a rough city but -- c'mon, how can someone dressed in a black rain coat with hiking shoes on and a backpack look like a prostitute??? Trust me, it happens. Being mistaken for a prostitute would, however, be the least of my worries.

The house was fine, I mean, it had all of the amenities -- well, it was capable of having all of the amenities. Wait, lets backtrack-- these 2 guys, my future roomates. One, a 35 year old father of, wait for it... 5 kids, nicely divided amoung 2 women who had just left his last wife and headed for Liverpool for a new start. Fair enough I thought -- This was Peter.

Peter who was English- turned out he loved to gossip and had a bit of a dependence on anti-depressants. Which, of course, I'd only come to find out after moving in with him. A bit of a clean freak -- slightly neurotic when it comes to cleanliness actually -- but in general I didn't think he was too bad of a guy. I kept my mouth shut about others around him and didn't give him any insight into my own life -- I figured that it would be fine.

And -- there was, Daniel. He's like Madonna or Cher -- I have no idea what his last name is until this day. Daniel -- a very kind man. He's one of those guys that you'd describe as a nice guy, a big teddy bear... always there to lend an ear, provide advice, etc. He was a larger man, always working hard -- in fact, rarely to be seen because he was working so much. Daniel 38, from Romania, husband, father of one was working so hard to send money home to his family in Romania -- aww, how noble. He was one of the most caring men I'd met -- caring perhaps, sincere? Well...

Okay so, insert me. We had all moved our few possessions in this house -- the landlord was both Daniel and Peters boss -- so we'd gotten it for a deal. Great. I didn't care really -- as long as I was out of the hostel and had, quote, 4 walls and a bed of my own. We were never there at the same time -- and I thought this was great. Yeah -- great until one day when I walked in we had no electricity, no gas, and no proof of a signed contract anywhere in sight.

Daniel kept going to Romania and began his, or perhaps continued his sympathic stories. My wife is so sick, I need to go back to Romania. The next week, my son is really sick with a long elaborated story. We had all felt sorry for him and thought, what a poor guy. He was the biggest charity case I'd ever seen. We had all gotten sucked in -- he was all about secrets, asking everyone to borrow money and making sure no one had ever known about the money he'd borrowed from the other.

Daniel -- he was like one of those single men who you see or hear about on t.v. that hit up old ladies for their money, marry them and then make off with Millions, leaving them with nothing -- except the line, "I thought he really loved me." That was my analogy -- none of us could foresee what would happen to us.

I had been no different. I must have had sucker written on my forehead -- the first time I had given him an advance on my rent -- £200.00. This was, of course, so that he could go home and see his sick wife. Off he went. When the time came -- my rent was paid for the month of July and all had seemed just peachy. Not long after he came around again -- this time with the same proposition -- yes, I know you can all see it coming -- but for some reason, I'd still been blinded and hesitantly handed over the same amount, this time for his sick son. SMRT, my friend Lindsay would say... I wasn't worried -- well, wasn't too worried.

Then strange things began to happen... he was gone to Romania again leaving me and my anti-depressant/gossip queen roomate to cope on our own. It was only then that we began to realize just how little we knew about our roomate. Either of us had a last name, or had even seen proof of a signed lease. Whatsmore, one day the electric ran out (they run on a pre-paid system here like pre-paid cell phones... you have to buy a card each time). No power, great. Apparently, Peter had no money either and already feeling like I had made a huge mistake, there was no way that I was dishing out more of my savings.

Okay, no electric -- not a problem for me. I was always working and showered at the gym. All I needed was a place to sleep -- of course, you can only live so long with out Electric. And then -- no gas. Nothing! We couldn't hook up the gas, because we didn't have our name on the lease -- our ficitional lease, only Mr. Daniel had a copy of this lease which he, coincidently left in Romaina?!

Anyway -- no gas, no electric, and no lease and no sign of Daniel. We had officially dubbed ourselves squatters.

Daniel became very aggressive when asked about money and as time went on and we had all begun to talk to one another (we being other people that he had befriended at the hostel) had come to realize that this guy had taken us for more than we had originally thought. The worst case, was him hitting up one of the 18 year olds from Poland for his entire savings of £500.00 -- I think that's what had bothered us the most. For us, we were adults and made a stupid decision, but that was just too much.

In the mean time -- my gossip hungry roomate Peter would be left in the house on his own most of the time and in his "cleaning" spree's saw it fit to go into my room at the very least to, quote, change the bins. I had suspected that there was someone in my room but couldn't quite accuse anyone -- and one day while visiting the hostel I'd been approached by one of the girls there asking me about something Peter had told her. As it turns out, he was in my room digging around in my things and whatever he found to be interesting he'd go to the hostel and spread the word.

At this point - I had had enough. I couldn't trust anyone. Going back to this place at night just killed me. I didn't feel safe and wondered what else this guy was doing with my things -- I felt so unsafe there that I'd taken my passport out and felt it would be safer at the hostel. I felt stuck, and dreaded every minute of it. I'd just sit on my bed and cry -- I wondered how I could have been so gullable and blinded by it all -- but there I was, via candle light crying. I felt so isolated and disconnected from the entire world -- I didn't want to call home because I was just so embarassed by being so gullable and most of all, I was angry at myself.

Things had gotten a little better -- eventually, after 2 weeks we had electric and gas. Even still, tensions were high amoungst us. I was at a breaking point and held back no confrontation -- one nightI was confronting Daniel and realized that it was just he & I in the house and the reality of it all was that I had no idea who this guy was. I dropped the argument and realized that the only thing that I could do was to get out -- no matter how, where, or what I had to do.

Work -- work was comforting, they really were. They'd come up to me and tell me about places to live -- offeres to be roomates, etc. My boss was supportive . Of course... in keeping with the drama there was this incident at work in which the police had to be called, a guy sent to jail, and then accordingly charged the next day. Wow. What a month...

Whatever the case -- I'd finally decided -- after many hours of wondering what I was actually doign here in Liverpool -- to pick myself up and start again.

Sometimes, I don't know where I find the strength -- I really just wanted to go home, to give up. But, my rational was, what exactly am I going to do if I go home?? Am I going to let these 2 idiots ruin my time here in Liverpool? I left that house on August 12th. I walked away from my neurotic anti-depressant dependant roomate Peter, and the pathological liar/con man Daniel, and £200.00. In hindsight -- £200.00 is a lot of money that if it was a price that I had to pay to get out of there then sobeit.

Sitting here writing about this entire situation fills me with emotion -- I mean, it's kind of funny in hindsight, only because I'm not there anymore, but it was a hard, hard time. I'm not one to rely on anyone, but there was a lot of support from the people I'd met here -- which I'm not sure I could have done with out this time around.

As with any story -- there is a silver lining. In my desperation I thought that no matter what, I could move back into the hostel -- I had given myself this as a back up plan and had moved on from there. With diligence I went to the library and searched rooms for rent -- everyone knows how shitty it is to look for a new place to live -- well, it's no easier when you're in a city you hardly know (apart from the area surrounding the hostel) and you're in a foreign country -- which, although is English speaking is much different.

I found many ad's but there was one in particular that had stood out for me. Of all the ad's I'd contacted I had only gone to see one place. I went and it was perfect - I had an instant feeling of wanting to be there -- it felt like home. Of course though, I was ever so slightly deterred about jumping into anything too soon. I waited around for a week, browsing ad's all the while this place I'd gone to see was just so prominent in my mind.

A week later -- I'd called back and although it was more expensive than I wanted I thought to myself -- if it's still available it's meant to be and I'm going to take it. I'd called back and they hadn't let it out to anyone. At this point, I figured that I had nothing to lose, so I negotiated the price to what I thought was suitable and have finally found myself a home. At least for while I'm in Liverpool.

Life, the home life, is now good -- perfect I dare say. I live in a secure house, recently refurbished, fully furnished, and in a quiet area. I live with an Italian man who owns the house, a guy from Latvia, and a couple from the Czeck Rebublic. I like to joke with people when they ask me how my new place is -- I always tell them, it's great -- we have electric and gas all of the time. It's funny how you come to take things for granted -- gas and electric.

My roomates are like my family -- we each take turns baking, share our stories about how we ended up in Liverpool, what we aspire to do, and differences in our culture. We're all well educated people and likeminded. It's great.

So, yeah, I'm no longer a Squatter -- I am out £200.00 which hurts, I wince each time I'm reminded of it, but admittedly, if it was the price I had to pay to learn this not so easy lesson than sobeit. I'm alive. And as my friend Magda (from Poland) reminded me, it's just money and it can be made again.