KYRA KARATSU
From the Outside, In
It was no surprise that Lizzy and Naia were on the couch when I came home, their laughter heard long before I parked my bike in the yard. After all, tonight is Victoria’s night to host them, an appearance summoned by the promise of a home-cooked meal. I couldn’t tell what dinner had been, with the ceramic bowls on the coffee table long licked clean, but by the drawl of words loosened by Sauvignon Blanc, it was clear that the night had barely begun.
Morgan and Jess, my other housemates, had come home earlier in the evening and set up camp at that creaky, weathered dinner table, their laptops and homework cast aside in favor of shared company. “The audacity,” I catch the last bit of their conversation and the room erupts into warm laughter. I haven’t the faintest clue what they’re talking about, but whatever it is, it’s infectious enough to make me choke out a laugh too.
I once heard someone describe Isla Vista as a village, a place of endless sleepovers and spontaneity. We’re clearly a testament to this spirit of community, with our fair share of couch surfers and day visitors, wanderers, and regulars. Here, our laughter and joy are communal – the crumbling cliffs and pothole-infested streets are some sort of sick inside joke bonding us all together.
I hadn’t even gotten through the door when I'm whisked into their conversation, seamlessly easing into the chatter and commotion. A village, I hum to myself, smiling ear to ear as I’m offered a sip of that Sauvignon Blanc, a village.
When we first moved in, my mother found this rickety table on the side of the road, its legs painted white and wood etched with colorful scribbles from its previous owner. Despite its homely appearance, it was charming in the way that a one-eyed cat can still purr or a chipped teacup can still hold tea. But even more importantly, it was free. A college student’s favorite word.
For the past year, we’ve hidden these scratches and scribbles hidden beneath a tablecloth, a makeshift barrier between the old and the new. Hiding the blemishes beneath pale-colored cloth and a simple embroidered design.
Then, one day, we decided that the cloth needed a good washing. But once we removed it, it no longer felt necessary – it would simply get dirty again, we reasoned, a material not as robust or easily wipeable as solid wood. And so the tablecloth was permanently shed, scribbles brought up to greet the light of the window above.
In the months since the tablecloth was stowed away, I can see now that we’ve begun to leave our own mark now, too. Crumbs from cookies baked at midnight, vased sunflowers scattering petals across the surface. Coffee cup stains and leaked ink from fountain pens. This table has become a life, a being, one that watches curiously as we scarf down those discounted pints of ice cream, suffer through the Friday night shots of vodka, and ponder the meaning of it all.
Perhaps in its next life, when it’s set out in the sun with a post-it note labeled “FREE” stuck to its leg, when it’s picked up by its new caretakers – be it the college kids or the garbage truck – it’ll carry these stains, these stories of four girls sharing meals around a rickety old table who served its purpose well.
Morgan screams again. “God,” she tosses her hair over her shoulder, long past the point of exasperation, “I hate them.” Her words are just barely audible enough that you can hear her over the local frat house’s shitty electronic dance music, its base rattling the floors and walls since the afternoon.
Jess joins in, letting out a wry chuckle as the volume somehow spikes even louder. “I hate them too,” she seems to echo my own thoughts, her eyes flickering over to a pair of headphones: a promise of temporary relief.
Jess and Morgan’s room is the smaller of the two bedrooms, the twin beds and desks creatively arranged to accommodate what limited space they have. Unfortunately, it’s also a conductor of noise. Anything the neighbors say, play, or do, they hear. Yet, too often do we find ourselves congregating here – a sanctuary to confide in those intimate, sacred secrets too delicate for the largeness of the living room.
The house rattles again, and this time, it’s Victoria’s turn to pop her head through their door frame. “I hate them,” she cries out, joining in on this seemingly growing chorus.
It’s strange to be on this level of simultaneous and shared empathy, one where every process, mental and physical, is synced with one another. Morgan feels like sleeping in, I feel like sleeping in. Jess gets her period, I get my period. Victoria gets in my head, I get in hers. It’s this endless cycle of forging something stronger than any man could create. A girlhood defiant in unapologetic loudness.
Now, it’s my turn to shout “I HATE YOU,” as the house rattles once again. There's a strange beauty to finding comfort in something that once felt foreign, raw and primal and unbecoming. The catharsis of letting go, all to scream at a house of frat boys who wouldn't, couldn't, understand.
This room is not a room. You can tell by the way pieces of roof chisel off onto our beds and the hollow wall that barely separates us from the neighbors’ living room. It’s a landlord’s reach for an extra buck, an extension that likely violates some sort of building code. This room is not a room.
Yet, I just can’t find myself to be too mad at this not-a-room. My books and clothes all live here, watching me tap away at the computer to work on an assignment that should’ve been finished by yesterday or lie down on the carpeted floor, listening to the song of seagulls and crows fighting on the roof.
Despite its architectural flaws, this space has housed our daily rhythm, a steadfast routine of good mornings and good nights. Victoria and I take turns coming in and out of the room, folding up laundry and chatting about our days as we prepare for the next. And when night hits, we keep each other accountable for continuing our Duolingo streak before bedtime. Buenos noches, Victoria’s Duolingo app will ring. Oyasuminasai, mine will reply.
But on mornings like this, where the two of us have both opted to turn the alarms off and ignore the bustle of a beginning day, there’s a coziness that’s as warm as the womb. A peacefulness unperturbed by the bothers of the world. In this room that’s not a room, time ceases to exist in the frenzy of deadlines and distractions. Sleeping in as life goes on.
Like a snow globe, you can almost just shake it, watching flecks of plastic snow fall on the scene below and onto those little figurines that smile a forever smile – one that’s painted on with faint pink ink and calls out some sort of strange familiarity.
This little world of ours, an overpriced 2-bedroom duplex, is just this. A chaos contained in glass and insulation and brick, a moment preserved.
If you lean in closely (but not too close!), you might just be able to see that thrifted table that hobbles to the side. The bikes that line the corners and the walls. Those warm-toned fairy lights that are turned on every evening when the sun is swallowed by the sea. Artifacts of our existence, of our time on Pasado Rd.
You might just be able to hear us, too, if you place a soft ear to the window – the faint honk of a laughter that could cure almost every ailment or heartbreak, just barely escaping through the cracks. You might blush when you hear us talk about sex or yelp when we violently slap cards down during a heated game of Egyptian War. The sizzle and hiss of the oven roasting chickpeas, the whine of Stevie Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen.” If you close your eyes, you will hear it all.
Every sense is truly overwhelmed here. But we sure as hell know it beats the silence, the emptiness, that we’ll face in just a few weeks' time, when the lights and playing cards are packed away and the keys are handed to the next tenants.
So for now, we’ll laugh and cry and dance in this snow globe of ours, a perfect world from the outside in.