After biting anyone's head off who came near me during my 'I think I might be homeless in a week' period, I finally got an apartment. I then immediately proceeded to forget to bring my checkbook to the meeting with the landlord, M.M. or 'Uncle' M., as he later affirmed that Harvard students affectionately called him, was a 90-pound Persian delegate to the Democratic Convention, and was not pleased with my snafu. 'Just go home and get it,' he said curtly, with a mistrustful glance. Then in Gujarati, he mumbled "We don't want to start things off on the bad foot." (A sidenote: The unecessary use of "the" or the incorrect use of articles has become a pet peeve of mine, after a potential roommate referred to Boston as 'the Boston.' REJECTED.)
At first I thought that speaking the same language as my landlord would give us a joking familiarity, which I see my mom share with rando Indian women at the grocery store. Instead, his numerous Gujarati comments referencing anything from his family's bloody demise at the hands of the British (they were blown apart with cannons) to 'how I shouldn't talk to any member of the press besides the Boston Globe,' became a source of discomfort, that I attempted to deflect by tittering nervously and squinting at the fine print of the lease.
Despite his non-descript appearance, Uncle M. turned out to be quite the celebrity, as evidenced by the square named after him. A little green sign on Massachusetts Avenue marked the existence of a M.M. Square. Of course, I took a picture with it.
Moving happens next weekend. Updates to follow.
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