British houses are quite different from American houses, which totally makes sense until you’re standing in one. Then you realize the exact idiosyncrasies of our allies across the pond. These architectural differences, among other things, seem to arise both from a superficial issue of phrasing in addition to complex structural distinctions. One of the most automatic variations, however, is the expression ‘ground floor’, which demonstrates a clear disparity between British and American terminology. To those of us in the States, ‘ground floor’ insinuates the basement level of a building, but here in the UK, ‘ground floor’ simply means the floor most immediately entered through the front door. Consequently, our (US) second floor becomes their (UK) first floor and so forth. I’ll stop here before I talk myself into circles. But anyway, discovering that ‘ground floor’ did not in fact signify ‘basement’ came as a great relief to one of my housemates living in the ground floor single who thought she was relegated to a lonely, and potentially very creepy, English basement. Thankfully, no one lives in the actual basement, which is hardly a basement at all in the American sense as the kitchen and dining area occupy that space instead of room for additional storage.
In any case, my house here in Bath has loveably random furnishings and a quirkily constructed layout. Upon our initial arrival my roommates and I conducted an ecstatically intensive inspection of our temporary property. We noticed, straight away, several collections of books (mostly travel guides), DVDs and VHS tapes (spanning eclectically from Fight Club to Bridget Jones’ Diary), school supplies (stashed in desk drawers), bath towels (safe to use hopefully?) and spices (that might easily be a few decades old). Every closet, desk drawer and cabinet held hidden assortments of useful materials; one less item we needed to purchase for the semester. Most likely these objects were abandoned by participants of former sessions whose suitcase(s) became increasingly cramped as souvenirs accumulated. Equally erratic, the furniture appears like a wild mash-up of posh antiques and rudimentary college basics. Our living room has a lovely wooden end table yet I have a fold out desk chair. The mix is at once startling and inviting. The furnishings seem probably less stereotypically ‘British’ and more like just an arbitrary rotation of estate sale, and in some instances, yard sale goods. And the washing machine? Don’t even get me started… I basically need a biblically thick manual to figure out how to operate that thing. Or maybe just the perennially helpful advice of Wikipedia. Actually, though, it’s the design of the house that most evidently signals its British style.
(The dining area and kitchen is my favorite part of the house)
The relative width of the house is shockingly narrow. Overall, there’s an overwhelming feeling of compact economy since both the hallways and the staircases only fit roughly a body and a half at the very most. Two-way traffic typically becomes somewhat tricky here, so we have to tread cautiously. Often we find it necessary to pause and alternate turns. No wonder the British are so polite. Their houses, or at least the urban properties, probably force them into such behavior and I hesitate to consider how hectic the hallways will become if everyone runs late. Furthermore, as I stated earlier, the kitchen and dining area are intriguingly enough located in the basement, which connects directly to the backyard complete with clothesline and charcoal grill. Although I doubt either will receive habitual use until mid-spring. Unlike the smoothly adjoined kitchen, dining and backyard space, heating does not flow through the entire house. Central heating here generally remains an anomaly, but that’s partially related to the fact that we’re occupying in an unrenovated Victorian townhouse. On my part the old-fashioned lack of central heating doesn’t disturb me too much. Back home I live in an old house and a city where heating costs are sky high, so we keep the thermostat- sometimes painfully -low. My flat mates, on the other hand, required a brief period of adjustment. They learned pretty quickly that the best solution to a poorly insulated house is simply an extra layer of clothing. Furthermore, certain architectural features display a marked attempt to conserve heat. For example, both the front and back doors feature a small antechamber between the door and the house which functions as a tiny cavity to trap the cold air from the rest of the house. Brits, it appears, prefer clear distinctions between hot and cold. Especially in the instance of our water, which spews out either arctic icy cold or scald-the-skin-off-your-hands hot. Warm does not exist from the faucet. If you want warm water you have to mix it in the sink. Similarly, the ‘bathroom’, ‘loo’, ‘washroom’, or what have you so far remains the most puzzling aspect of the house.
Behold the European bathroom: built for- well, I’m not exactly sure, but definitely not efficiency. Almost each floor has a bathroom or some sort of unique hybrid. It’s difficult to explain. Our house has a bathroom in the basement that fully aligns to the contemporary American perception. It contains a dual shower and tub, toilet, sink and mirror. The ground floor has no bathroom, however the landing between the stairs leading from the ground to the first floor includes a tiny little closet with just a toilet and sink. From here on up, though, things grow slightly unfamiliar. On the first floor, the ‘bathroom’ adjoins my bedroom. Inside there’s a bathtub without a shower, a sink and two chest-of-drawers. But no toilet. There’s also carpeted flooring curiously. But no toilet. I’m acquainted with the European custom to create distinct areas for the shower and the toilet, but this specific separation seems particularly inconvenient in its spacing. My roommate hypothesizes that the plumbing was added to the house later, so the modern result looks quite clumsy. Continuing to the final floor, the bathroom freely stands as an independent room complete with shower and sink. But no toilet. Obviously, it becomes a bit sticky- read: competitive- when everyone needs to use the toilet, principally for the girls on the second floor. Yet this problematic separation finally makes me pleased that I live in an all-female house. Too much estrogen? So what? A mistaken run-in while transferring from shower to toilet with a male resident would just be a thousand different shades of awkward. No thanks. But prospective conflict doesn’t only occur between housemates. After all, we’ve got neighbors.
(Note the vertical mail slot)
Truly, no house is complete without neighbors. Even the cantankerous kind. Apparently the next-door neighbors do not share the same sense of lively exuberance as my flat mates and I. In the past it seems our neighbors have lodged frequent grievances against our house concerning noise problems. By ‘noise problems’, this means that they have complained about excessive sound after ten on weeknights and weekends. According to my housing orientation guide, Widcombe is a neighborhood of young professional types who enjoy plenty of beauty rest and expect constant serenity. Well, that’s a bit difficult for eight 21-year old girls temporarily transported to Bath for a semester. Regardless of their debatably high-maintenance demands, though, it’s easy to see how somebody could disturb their neighbors here since the houses are literally packed side-by-side. Back at home I live in a city, so I’m used to somewhat more noise than average even during obscene hours of the night and/or very early morning. But in terms of physical closeness, my house looks like a country estate with a hundred acres surrounding it. We discovered, thanks to the housing orientation, that the wall of our living room directly lines up to the wall of our neighbors’ bedroom. Yep. This just got super awkward. Subsequently, the kitchen and dining room serve as the social hub of the house in an unspoken attempt to placate the neighbors. After discussing our individual situation with other ASE students, we realized that the other houses had similarly acquired unsavory reputations or housed unfortunate layouts as well. A fellow ASE student in another house related how a man rents a garden flat directly underneath their house, which generates a strange dynamic since no one wants to disturb the renter, and thus feels badly about walking too heavily at odd times of the day. Maybe over the course of the semester my roommates and I will manage to impart a decent impression on the neighbors and mend prior difficulties. Perhaps we’ll invite them over for a barbeque and finally give our grill some proper use. But no matter the neighbor situation, it's generally a collective acknowledgement by ASE participants that everybody grows rather attached to their respective houses. And I can definitely vouch for that fact. Out of all the houses in Bath, I really love mine best.
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