The ad was promising: two rooms in the city center for 2750. Sure, it was a little expensive for me. And the rent seemed improbable for the location. But the owner wasn’t calling for religious tenants. I figured I’d check it out.
The apartment was so small that I gently tut-tutted the tenant for paying the landlord so much. “The price is exaggerated,” I told her. “You should get him to lower it.”
She shrugged. “I’m not one to argue. I don’t want any problems. But, if you want the place, you can ask him.”
I looked around and tried to imagine myself and my cat in the sliver of space.
“I wonder if I’m allowed to have a pet here,” I wondered aloud.
“I do. I have a ferret,” the tenant said. She opened the bottom drawer of the armoire that stood in her bedroom/living room/study/dining area (the “second” room was a tiny kitchen). There was the animal, snuggled up in a towel.
I couldn’t stick my cat in a drawer. But I was desperate for an apartment. I stood there, trying to make a decision—if I wanted the place, I should probably pounce. We chatted as I thought things over.
The tenant asked me what I did for work. I hesitated. It’s hard to tell someone’s political affiliation just by looking at them. Sometimes, however, there are clues. I sized her up and guessed her to be “safe.”
“I work for a joint Israeli-Palestinian organization,” I said. “I’m a journalist, too. I used to write a lot for Al Jazeera.”
“Awesome,” she answered. “I don’t have any problem with that. But don’t tell the landlord. He won’t rent to you.”
The place looked even smaller then. I thanked the tenant and headed out.