The Art of Domestic Failure: An Anthology of Apartment Mishaps

You can analyze political theory and debate international policy, but nothing in the Sciences Po curriculum prepares you for the true test of intellect and will: surviving your own apartment. I learned this the hard way, one domestic disaster at a time.

It all began with what I thought was a perfectly responsible morning. I put a load of laundry in the machine and headed out to get groceries, feeling productive. I returned, bags in hand, to find my roommates in the midst of a frantic mopping operation. My kitchen floor had become a shallow, soapy lake. The culprit? A tube had somehow disconnected itself. The panicked, towel-soaking operation that followed was a low point, culminating in the ultimate admission of defeat: a call to our landlord, who sent her husband over to fix the rebellious appliance. I now look at the machine with a mix of gratitude and deep-seated distrust. 

Then there was the dinner that almost was. I was planning to cook, a simple act of self-sufficiency. I reached for the olive oil to start my meal, and in one graceful, catastrophic motion, sent the bottle shattering across the floor. My roommates, still wary from the flooding, watched from a safe distance as I spent the next hour on my hands and knees, cleaning up a glittering, expensive lake of glass and regret. I was still finding greasy spots days after. 

But as I’ve learned from comparing horror stories with classmates, my chaos is just a single thread in a rich tapestry of student housing despair.

“It’s not my turn”

Beyond the explosive disasters, there are the silent battles, fought not with mops, but through a stubborn war of attrition. It begins with the communal items: the toilet paper, the cooking oil, the salt, the pepper. You see the olive oil bottle, now light enough to be a maraca with only a sad golden film at the bottom. You use the last square of toilet paper, leaving the empty roll as a monument to your consumption. You shake the final grains of salt into your dinner.

A tense, silent standoff begins. Everyone has seen the near-empty container. Everyone knows. Yet, no one buys more. For days, you navigate a minefield of subtle reminders and strategic avoidance. Cooking becomes a choreographed dance of using the last dregs of oil and seasoning your food with hope. A trip to the bathroom becomes a calculated risk.

The moment someone finally cracks and returns from the supermarket with the precious goods is a moment of collective, unspoken victory. No “thank you” is uttered – the purchase itself is the white flag. It’s a universal test of will, a parable of shared responsibility that, somehow, is more stressful than a flooded kitchen.

Malicious appliances

I thought my disconnected tube was the peak of washing machine drama, until it wasn’t. 

After her landlord complained that she was putting too little into the machine, a friend decided to maliciously comply and stuffed it full for the next load. The machine, perhaps sensing the spite, stalled completely and overflowed with dense, unmanageable bubbles. The fallout involved her handwashing mountains of soapy clothes in the sink while her French roommate stood by, helpfully “translating the horror” of the situation as they both laughed in abject terror. She pierced her ears that same evening – sometimes domestic trauma requires an immediate coping mechanism.

Hostile territory

Living with roommates is always a gamble, but living with your landlord is a uniquely stressful game. One friend is currently enduring this nightmare. The inherent awkwardness is bad enough, but it’s the confusing mixed signals that truly break you.

One day, you are facing “French passive aggression” and complaints about the smell of your cooking – a failure to appreciate Asian cuisine that feels suspiciously pointed. The next day, the same landlord is offering a ride to Menton Garavan to pick up mail with “sweet grandfatherly love.” It’s emotional whiplash. You never know if you’re getting a helpful ride to the train station or getting “shit-talked” to your face while you try to study.

Accidentally becoming a biology major

While we were busy studying for midterms, our kitchens were busy developing their own unauthorized curriculums in microbiology. Nothing humbles you quite like realizing your attempt at “independent living” has accidentally spawned new life forms.

It usually starts with the refusal to take out the bin – a game of “chicken” that recently led a friend to discover that Menton flies had found his trash particularly hospitable, leaving him with a thriving colony of maggots to deal with on a random morning.

But I cannot judge from my high horse. Before autumn break, I innocently left a batch of rice in my cooker, forgetting to clean it before rushing to the airport. When I returned a week later, I didn’t find rice. I found a fuzzy, aggressively green new life form. When I nervously shook the bowl, it released a literal cloud of spores into my kitchen. I hadn’t just failed at cleaning; I had successfully created a new, airborne ecosystem.

Laundry Lost

Typically, the Sciences Po Menton WhatsApp chat serves as a lifeline for the small crises of student life – a platform to hunt for lost headphones, sell football tickets, or frantically ask who to email to justify absences. But every so often, a different plea emerges – a cry of despair that is both tragic and hilarious. 

We all know the pain of losing a sock in a washing machine, but only in Menton do you have to contend with actual acts of God. I recently opened a chat to see a message that read: “Hey guys so I came back from uni to find out that the tornado ate all my laundry so if you find bed sheets and clothes around Menton they're mine 🥰”

It’s one thing to shrink your favorite sweater; it’s entirely another to have your bedsheets distributed across the Côte d'Azur by a rogue windstorm.

The Takeaway

My broken olive oil bottle and flooded floor aren’t just individual failures. They are part of the fabric of our off-campus life. We may be here to study the world’s great systems, but we’re learning equally vital lessons in our own tiny, chaotic microcosms. So the next time you’re scrubbing oil off your floor or triple-knotting a trash bag that is buzzing with life, know that you’re not alone. You’re just another Sciences Piste, learning the hardest lesson of all: how to navigate the beautiful, messy reality of being an adult.

Photo source: Michelle, flickr