Dona E. Bowens

So if you’ve been following this saga, you know that I’ve been a housing whore since arriving in Montevideo 2 months ago. First I spent a few days in a hotel before moving to airbnb number one for 3 weeks and then airbnb number two for a month. That whole time I was searching, searching for a long-term apartment to rent. Through divine intervention, I came upon a beautiful apartment in the Old City that spoke to my bohemian soul.

That’s the front of my building and when I walked in, I knew this was the place.

I was sold by the entrance hall. Then came the art.

For the full story of how I found the place, because it was a journey indeed, please visit my post entitled I.B.P. I signed the contract for October 1st but took advantage of my last 2 weeks in airbnb number two to move in slowly. After running all over Montevideo buying sheets, towels, utensils and all that stuff that you usually move with you from home to home, I finally spent my first night in the beautiful piso on October 13th…

And it was pure uncensored hell! 🤣Oh. My. God. It was a nightmare. Got all snuggled up under my new sheets and blankets and couldn’t catch a wink for the death metal music raging from some neighbor’s apartment, or so I thought. I truly believed that someone was purposely fucking with me because every time I decided to finally put on some clothes and go knock on the neighbor’s door…the music would stop. I’d breathe a sigh of contentment and just as I was about to nod off, here comes the death metal again.

It felt as if the band had set up in my kitchen. This went on, and off, until one-something in the morning. Death metal, pause, death metal, pause. It was brutal. Then on top of all that, people were running through the hallways and having a good old time slamming doors and loud talking. Every time someone comes on the floor, it triggers the hall light that shines right into my bedroom. Oh the joy. My dream of a little bohemian spot surrounded by art and artists and those bohemian types was dying a quick and painful death. In all the moving around that I’d done, not one of the airbnbs had a noise problem of any kind. No loud music or rambunctious neighbors. “Lawd,” I thought. “I have to do something to maintain my peace.” The building was so quiet during the day and evening that I believed it was just me and a neighbor in apartment 101 who I could hear talking on her phone every now and again. I decided to knock on her door the next afternoon and speak to her about the music.

Putting on my Spanish hat, I took a breath and knocked on door 101. I could hear her talking on the phone per usual. Katia was her name and she was very nice, tattooed and smiling. No, the music wasn’t hers. It was probably coming from one of the festivals—Sunday night was a holiday after all. She didn’t look like the type to run through the halls so I didn’t ask her about that. I told her my name and said I’d just moved into apartment 103. I let her get back to her endless phone call and congratulated myself on being neighborly in Spanish.

It was while strolling around the next day that I discovered a music academy around the corner from my apartment. The music could be heard for a couple of blocks including inside of my apartment—as if it was in my kitchen. Oh!!! Now I understand. The music changes, thank god, and it isn’t always death metal. In fact, most times it’s quite pleasant. R&B, sometimes. Other times flamenco. Now that I know it’s coming from a music school, I hardly notice it anymore. It’s all part of the atmosphere and it is indeed quite bohemian to think, “There go those crazy students again trying to play the blues.”

One problem solved! Now, who in the hell was ripping and tearing through the halls? Night two in the apartment was quiet and I slept like I was in church. 😴 It was downright delicious. The halls were quiet until night three. That was when Katia decided to come on out. It was as if she said, “Hola, World! This is me, this is who the fuck I am!”

Per usual, it started with Katia and her phone. At 1:30 in the morning. With her door open. Sitting half in her apartment and half in the hallway, which of course meant that the lights were ON. And she’s screaming. When she wasn’t screaming she was banging on the door of apartment 102. Banging so hard that I thought she would break the glass. I stayed mum. I hoped that she’d forgotten that I even existed. I think I would have jumped out of my skin if she banged on my door. It was at this moment that being a new immigrant really began to suck ass. I realized that I didn’t know the Uruguayan version of 911. What’s more, I hate speaking on the phone in Spanish. Sixty percent of communication is gestures and having to rely solely on my ear to understand is taxing to say the least.

On the sneak tip, I took a photo of Katia sitting in the hall screaming on her phone and recorded her, too. I got on WhatsApp with the intention of forwarding the evidence to Pia. “Who’s Pia,” you ask? Pia is the assistant to the owner of the building and handles the day-to-day shit like contracts, keys and all that. To my surprise, Pia was “online.” If you’re familiar with WhatsApp, as everyone except Americans are, you know that you can see when someone is connected. I was surprised to see Pia was online because now it was 2:30 in the morning. Katia had been raging for an hour. I sent a message to Pia with the photos apologizing for the late hour even though I could see she was awake. Pia responded immmediately.

“Dona,” She said. “I live in apartment 102.” What the what??? Pia had been so sleuthy that I had no idea that anyone was living in 102. I thought it was just me and coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs Katia. And to think that Katia had been banging on Pia’s door. My god. Surely she must’ve jumped out of her skin. Pia and I started an instantaneous support group on WhatsApp. Found out that Pia was in contact with Katia’s daughter who was supposed to be on her way to handle the situation. And here’s the kicker. It’s not Katia’s apartment. It belongs to the daughter and son-in-law. Now my question is, where in the hell were these mofos while their mama was having a breakdown in their apartment? Katia’s screaming continued but now was now reduced to just screaming one word, on repeat, at the top of her lungs. PUTA! PUTA! PUTA!

You don’t need to know Spanish to understand that one. Finally Pia called the po-po after Katia began another round of door banging. Pia texted me to say that she was terrified. I told her she wasn’t alone in that. Poor Pia had to sprint passed Katia to let the police in downstairs. As she sprinted back she said, “Dona! The police are here,” when she passed my door before locking herself inside her apartment.

You know Katia went inside and became all peaches and cream when the po-po knocked on her door. Isn’t that always the way? Katia did eventually open the door a crack and was purring like a kitten. But her purrs were still incoherent. She’d moved on from PUTAS and was now complaining about the Chinese. God forbid she ever encounter a Chinese PUTA. Poor woman. Where was her child? She’d had enough time to come and check on her mother. I knew for sure that I wasn’t in Amerikkka anymore because these cops talked and talked and talked some more to Katia trying to get her to come with them voluntarily. Let me put it this way. I fell asleep at 4:30 a.m. and they were still talking to her. Now you know that had this been the US, the cops would have wrestled her to the ground, hog-tied her and thrown her down the steps within 23.9 seconds. Am I lying?

Katia was gone the next day. Someone came, the daughter I guess, and was moving stuff around and out, I suppose, because I haven’t heard a peep nor a scream from apartment 101 since that night of chaos. I wonder how the eviction laws work in Uruguay because it seemed Pia and the Boss Man got Katia gone muy rapido. I sincerely hope she’s getting the help she needs. One thing for sure, she probably doesn’t have to worry about a co-pay. Let’s give a shout out to universal healthcare!

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