Decadence

This weekend, I have had the sudden fortune of housesitting for the father of a friend of mine, who lives in a cozy yellow house off Brattle Street. Somewhere in between the endless cups of tea made on a real stove and the nth great circle around the block with the resident director of security, Livingstone, I began to ask myself what it was I enjoyed so much about houses. What could dorms possibly lack?

I have listed my conclusions below: ten things that made my stay in the house intensely enjoyable. The grouping under "decadence" suggests, of course, both their superfluity and the "deca" implicit, though etymologically unrelated, to the word.

1. Bathtubs. The real kind, footed and very deep, preferably with a skylight and ubiquitous bottles of Mr. Bubble. Obscure books to read in the bath (e.g. History of Troy). These are infinitely preferable to the flagging water pressure and occasional infestations of fourth-floor showers. The latter, however, are much better for productivity: It is impossible to take a bubble bath in less than forty-five minutes.

2. Double beds. Somehow, the extra six inches on standard-issue dorm beds cannot compensate for the seeming doubling in all directions common to double beds: twice as thick, twice as wide, four pillows and four blankets. I have not slept so well in years, thanks to the combined effects of tea (see #3), solitude (see #4) and a dedicated guardian (see #6).

3. Teapots. No more remaking-the-tea-for-every-cup, visiting the hot-water canister yet again, getting the blend just right three drinks at a time. Instead, the kettle is put on, some large amount of time passes before it begins to whistle (enough to read at least one good article from the New York Times Magazine), and the pot is filled with real (loose-leaf) tea. This tea, brewed correctly, stays warm for the entire two-and-a-half glasses, enough to finish the magazine.

4. Solitude. Time passes very strangely in a large house full of windows. Thunderstorms come and go, papers are written. There are no sounds, however faint, of other people leaving for class or coming back, singing in the shower, complaining to each other, going to meals: The collective rhythm is completely absent and so, as a result, morning comes and goes in the blink of a whole novel (who knew there were so many hours before noon?) or is lost in bed.

5. Obscure machinery. What was the last time you used a cheese grater, a hand-whisk, an egg-boiler, an espresso-maker, a milk-frother, a pressure-cooker? The delights of modern engineering never cease to amaze me. Having lived with only microwaves, hot plates, refrigerators and plastic utensils, I find myself constructing elaborate meals (nine-story cakes, boiled eggs and espresso with frothy milk) to use as many of these marvels in three days as possible.

6. Dogs. Few living beings are more excited by your return than large wet dogs back from a walk in the rain, and few take longer to dry. Their great penchant for exploring the bushes, yards and alleys of the neighborhood never flags, no matter how inclement the weather. Thanks to Livingstone, I have learned, indispensably, that the only way to get a recalcitrant dog out from under the bed is to ring the doorbell.

7. Permanence. Heavy furniture, the kind that couldn't possibly be moved every semester. Huge clocks that have not been in summer storage for decades. Rugs that have been walked on in all seasons. Matching place-settings, for more than four people. Endless cups for tea. Art on the walls. Time for dreaming.

8. Music. Sound echoes wonderfully up and down three stories, out of a study, past the previously all-important boundaries of the room. It comes in and out of doors and into the kitchen where you are busy dissecting the obscure machinery (see #5). No one else is studying, no one else is singing along. This is how Bach and Orbital were meant to sound.

9. Breakfast. Again, the decadence is in the preparation. First, the survey of goods: oranges, pears, eggs, various kinds of cheese and sausage, two kinds of flour, four kinds of sugar, appropriate spices, pots and pans of all sizes and appropriate machinery. Second, the slow and deliberate assembly (see #4). Finally, the open-ended consumption of the meal: half-an-omelette, walk the dog, read the paper, crepe, bubble bath, write a paper, walk the dog, hot chocolate with steamed milk, write column...

10. Distance. There is nothing like a commute to create the idea of home. Though the walk to the house is not long it has, this weekend, been entirely full of rain in both directions. Each will to leave (excluding the walks around the block: see #6) is a deliberate venture into the world. As a resident of a river House, these details of journey are fascinating.

As you all return to real houses, I wish you all a happy winter break. May it be full of decadence, obscure machinery, excellent food, thunderstorms, camaraderie and, where appropriate, delimited lists.

Maryanthe E. Malliaris '01 is a mathematics concentrator in Lowell House. Her column appears on alternate Mondays.