Homestay uncovered

Homestay. A word I’m not fond of hearing. Home, yes. Stay, yes, but put together it becomes a concept so vile it makes my stomach turn. I don’t want to stay in strangers’ homes. It’s unnatural, unpleasant and even unsanitary sometimes. I admit that there is a slight chance of ending up in a home where you are woken by the smell of fresh coffee, the sound of the waves crashing in (if you’re into that sort of thing – personally, I’m not) or a ray of sunshine peeking through the curtains. I bet the chances are you wake up to kids screaming or doors slamming in a room that’s either icy cold or hot as hell.

When told that I would have to spend the first weeks in Farnham in homestay, needless to say, I was less than ecstatic. It would be with a young family with three children and a dog. Goody. Not only would I have to listen to the screaming kids but a yapping pooch as well.

At the house we were met by the father of the family. I’ll call him Mr. H. He was nice and polite, offered to carry some of the bags. We were introduced to Mrs. H and one of the kids, who got up sleepy-eyed to see the rude foreigners who had driven her out of her room – as we later learned. Something was seriously wrong here. Family H was nice. How weird. They escorted us to our third-floor room with a modern en-suite bathroom and offered us weary travellers some late night supper. Mrs. H said she would bring a TV and a sofa to the spacious room which now had a double bed, a desk, a full-length mirror and an ottoman. Yes, what is a room without an ottoman. Never mind the armchair.

All in all I went to bed quite relieved. Family H had not turned out to be the kind of horror family you see yelling at the airline staff in Airport or smacking their kids in Supernanny. The house is largely renovated and clean. Yes, there are carpets and in some places even separate rugs on the carpets (you can’t always win), but at least the bathroom floor is tiled and the faucets are the sane kind.

Returning to the house after the first day at work we expected to sit on our sofa and numb our overworked brains with some mindless TV-programming. Downstairs we were met by Mrs. H who quickly apologized for not having arranged the TV and the sofa. She’d been crazy busy all day. Fine. Not the end of the world. There’s the bed and we both have laptops. At least the WiFi was working.

The following day Mrs. H had gone to the superstore that is Sweden’s gift (or curse) to the rest of the world. Curious thing that, considering the fact that the house is filled with French country furniture and antiques and everything Cath Kidston ever produced. In obvious delight she then showed us tiny colourful plastic drinking glasses that ought to be used in children’s playhouses only. The sofa for which she had originally gone to the superstore was nowhere to be found. Apologetically Mrs. H explained that she had got lost in the four-story store and had not found the correct department at all. Right. This occurred a week ago and the sofa has never been mentioned since. There have been no sightings of a TV or promised curtains either. Instead we have got two filthy bean bags that I wouldn’t dare sit on in fear of catching something (we haven’t registered at the doctor’s office yet), a curtain rod, a little wall cupboard thingy with hooks to hang coats on and a bright yellow trash can (purchased from the Swedish wonderland).

That being said, family H is really very flexible and hospitable, though slightly odd. I don’t mind that they know less than nothing about Finland, nor do I judge Mr. H for the fact that he doesn’t know where the toilet paper is kept in his own house or find it particularly odd that they use potato peeler to slice cheese. (Well, that is odd, but it does work quite nicely.) Still, I was awfully relieved today to sign a paper which will get us out of this house and into a flat of our own by the end of the month. But that’s another story.