Dispatch from Yaya's Room

I'm sitting in the bedroom of a girl whom I'll call Yaya. Yaya is, I believe, a teenage girl, and, although I've never met her, I know several important things about her, such as: she likes cats; she reads Philip Pullman books (though what she thinks of them I don't know); and she enjoys wearing large, chunky jewellry.

How do I know these things about Yaya? Well, you might say I'm living in her room.

See, I've come to London - Kew, to be precise, on the southwestern edge of town - to do a bit of research at the National Archives here and (though this is further into the city) at the British Library. I'm beginning a new project and hoping to cram as much research into the next three weeks as I can before I have to get back to The Valley to renew those Thursday lunches - and my fellowship comes with a research stipend, so it's pretty much a cost-free trip for me, which is kind of fabulous.

Now, as many of you know, London can be a very expensive place to stay. It's become much less expensive now that the exchange rate is a little less insane - about $1.44 to the pound instead of $2.00 - but it's stil quite pricey, especially when it comes to accommodations. Enter Yaya. Or, more precisely, Yaya's parents, who live in Kew and rent out several rooms in their home on a weekly basis. It's probably the cheapest lodging in London, steps away from the archives and the Tube, and it's a lovely little house. The only thing is that, well, I'm living in their daughter's bedroom.

It's one of the strangest places I've ever been.

When I arrived yesterday, I was greeted by a tiny, elderly Vietnamese housekeeper whom I'd been warned spoke only French. I don't know about her French, but I can verify that English is not a language with which she is conversant. She was expecting me, however, and kindly showed me upstairs to my room. I was briefly taken aback by the sign proclaiming the room to belong to Yaya, and further informing me that behind the bedroom door lay a "dungeon." My uncertainty intensified when, on entering the room, I noticed that the room was full of stuff - teenage girl stuff - and I had the strange feeling that I was trespassing or, worse, that Yaya might return home any minute. Had the housekeeper been able to understand me I would have somehow sought to confirm that I was, in fact, in the right place, but that wasn't really an option and, besides, she seemed completely nonplussed - indeed, slightly bored - by my presence, so I stepped inside and looked around. Sure enough, there were the promised mini-fridge and microwave, along with a toaster, an electric kettle, and a handful of plates and mugs and pieces of silverware. Clearly, I was not the first lodger to sleep in Yaya's room.

I was jetlagged and so I took a nap in Yaya's bed. I should point out here that my suitcase had gone missing somewhere during my layover in Halifax (as of this writing it's still yet to arrive), and so, lacking any pajamas, I took my pants off before getting in bed. A little while later, after I'd dozed off, the door opened and in walked another lady, who - thankfully - was not Yaya but Yaya's mother, the proprietess of the house, who'd come in to retrieve the keys the housekeeper had given me and replace them with another set. I was groggy and embarassed, unable to get out of bed because I was pantless, and fell back asleep after muttering a few things for her and, I believe, frightening her slightly.

When I woke up again it was mid-afternoon and time to pop down to the archives to get my reader's ticket and get my bearings, which I did, and then when I came back I ran into Yaya's mother again and had a slightly more lucid conversation in which I learned: a) there are at least 3 other lodgers in the house (although I've yet to meet any of them); b) Yaya is off at college, so there's very little chance of her popping in unannounced; and c) there's a Marks & Spencer just down the road where I can get some cheap ready-meals to keep in my mini fridge and heat up in my microwave. Armed with this new information, I popped down to the M&S and did just that.

I've got much more to say - about the archives, living in the same socks for 3 days, steak & kidney pudding, etc - but it's late and I'm tired. Before I go, though, I want to impress upon you just how strange this place is. Imagine the home you grew up in. It's got a dining room, a living room, a nice kitchen, a study, a place to watch TV, a driveway and an entryway, carpet, stairs, and so on. Now imagine that most of the bedrooms are inhabited by perfect strangers who pay you to live there. They don't spend any time in the kitchen or living room or dining room - they just pop into the entryway (where they take off their shoes), and scramble upstairs to their rooms while you go about living your life in the rest of the house. This is what life is like for Yaya's parents (there's a father, too - I know because I've briefly glimpsed him around a corner). Now imagine that you're one of the strangers living in this family's house. That's me.