Caffeinated (sort of) and sugared up, we returned to the Pinto with a mission: find a motel before nightfall. Simple, right? Two young students, plenty of options.
Not exactly.
We quickly learned that Labor Day weekend in Southern California meant every halfway-decent motel within 10 miles radius was packed with families on vacation. Each stop went the same way:
Me: “Do you have a room?”Clerk: “No vacancy.”Michael: “What about tomorrow?”Clerk: Blank stare — as if to say, Do these two not understand the concept of a holiday weekend?
After the third rejection, the Pinto felt smaller, the sun hotter, and the prospect of sleeping in the car more real. Michael swore under his breath in Greek, which I won’t translate, but let’s just say it wasn’t “Kalimera.”
Finally, after hours of aimless driving and increasingly desperate pleas, we spotted a faded neon sign flashing Vacancy under the “Inn”. The place looked… questionable. The kind of motel where you check in quickly and keep your shoes on inside. But at that point, it was either that or sleeping in the Pinto.
So we pulled in, handed over a stack of traveler’s checks, and received a brass key on a giant wooden keychain that probably weighed more than the door itself.
The room smelled like despair. The carpet was older than both of us. But it had beds, a TV, and—most importantly—a lock on the door.
We collapsed on the beds, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled roar of the freeway outside.
“Welcome to America,” Michael muttered.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
The next morning, somewhat refreshed, we returned to our “favorite” breakfast spot. Yes, once again: watery coffee and a jelly-filled donut. The American breakfast of champions.
By now, the girl behind the counter recognized us. She even smiled, which we took as a sign of friendship. So we asked her, “Where can we look to find a place to rent?”
Without missing a beat, she pointed to a counter stacked with leaflets and pamphlets — local ads, classifieds, and rental listings. Gold!
We sat there for an hour, pouring over the rentals, circling the ones that looked promising and, more importantly, within our budget. Armed with the pamphlet full of circled prospects, and our dining-table-sized map spread across the Pinto’s dashboard, we set out to claim our new American home.
First stop: we found the street, the number… and an empty lot.
“Maybe they are planning to build a house here,” I said optimistically.
Second stop: the address turned out to be a warehouse. Not quite what we had in mind.
By the fourth unsuccessful attempt, frustration set in. We took refuge once again at “our place” — the donut shop — for consultation.
That’s when the mystery was solved. A kind soul explained to us the critical detail we had missed: in America, addresses weren’t just numbers and street names. Some had suffixes like E for East, W for West.
We had been driving around aimlessly looking for 1234 Bonita Avenue while ignoring whether it was East or West. Small detail, giant headache.
That was our aha! moment. In Greece, you just say the street and the number and that was that. In California, one wrong letter and you could end up in a cow pasture instead of a rental home.
Getting the addresses straightened out worked wonders. Within a couple of days, we actually found a one-bedroom apartment in a newly constructed gated community, just a short walk from the University. Great! Victory!
We signed a short-term lease, handed over what little money we had, and were given the precious keys to our very first American home.
There was, however, a small detail.
The home had no refrigerator. And no furniture.
We stood in the middle of the empty apartment, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the bare walls, and looked at each other. “Well,” Michael said, “at least we won’t have to argue about decorating.”
Back we went to our war council headquarters — the donut shop. More watery coffee, more jelly-filled donuts, more classified ads spread across the sticky table.
Two listings jumped out at us. One store was advertising rental furniture. You could actually rent couches, beds, tables, everything — like checking them out from a library. The other ad said they were selling used home appliances.
Perfect. Between rented furniture and a second-hand refrigerator, we could cobble together our American dream home.
Michael leaned back, nodding in satisfaction. “We’ll have a furnished apartment by tonight.”
I wasn’t so sure. Something told me that in America, “used appliances” and “rented furniture” might come with a few surprises.
It turns out I was wrong.
It was not that night, but the next day that we finally had a furnished apartment and a used refrigerator that actually worked.
The furniture rental company arrived in the morning with a truck and two men who looked like they’d seen it all. In half an hour, our barren little unit was transformed. Suddenly, we had beds, a couch, a table with four chairs, a TV that had channels, and even lamps. It felt like magic.
Then came the refrigerator. Delivered by a man we’d haggled with the day before. He started at $120. We bargained. He frowned. Finally, he muttered, “One hundred.”
Michael, always the strategist, added a twist:“We’ll only be here four months. Will you buy it back when we leave?”
The man paused, considered, and then said:“If it still works, thirty-five.”
That was it. No handshake, no smile. He spoke as few words as possible, then wheeled in an avocado-green beast—bulky, scratched, and radiating the stubborn aura of something that had survived both the 1960s and the moon landing.
But when we plugged it in and heard that low, steady hum, we nearly cheered. Cold milk and ice cubes were back in our future.
By the afternoon, we stood in the middle of our “new” home. Two Greeks, one Pinto, rented furniture, and a refrigerator with a personality. Not exactly luxury, but compared to the Pinto nights, Inglewood panic, the rickety Inn, and the donut-shop diplomacy, it felt like paradise.
Michael flopped on the couch like a king, stretched out his arms, and with the authority of someone who had conquered the New World, declared:
“Now… we are Americans.”
I looked around at our kingdom — sunlight pouring through bare windows — and laughed. Against all odds, we had made it.
to be continued on October 14th…
