At this, the twilight of what has been a thankfully un-adventurous housesitting gig, I find myself a bit saddened. I am taking out the recycling (literally), changing the paper in the parakeet cage (literally), and re-organizing the fridge as befits my customary "leave no trace" policy. I would like to be Invited Back.
Housesitting, as well as kid- and pet-sitting to an arguably lesser degree (as in these there are witnesses) strikes me as a fascinating social milieu. It's a detached yet strangely intense laser-focus into someone else's life. You eat their cottage cheese, use their detergent, find their kid's month-old dirty sock underneath the sofa cushion as you browse their 614-channels of Comcastic delight.
Yet they're 8,000 miles away, in Bora Bora or something, having a lovely time of it while you stand in their kitchen Making Espresso at Six-Thirty A.M. I dunno, it just strikes me as something that Quentin Tarantino or perhaps Stephen Hawking would have a lot to say about.
Perhaps I could spend a year, or six months, just bouncing my way across Marin in this fashion. My bohemian self slogging from house to house, feeding spaniels, watering ferns, poking around kitchens for the right kind of colander.
It could be a downright pleasant business.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment