Dear Readers, I moved into a new apartment with virtually nothing—no bed, no towels, nothing for cooking, nothing to sit on… I had sevenish suitcases stuffed with clothes, books, photos, costumes, tote bags, hats and office supplies, but I was without anything to actually furnish my apartment.
I quickly discovered that there’s no Goodwills or many second-hand furniture stores around here, so I resorted to engaging with non-English speakers through the Facebook marketplace and OLX. Without having access to my various Texas friends with trucks, I was also limited only to items that people were willing to deliver to my newly-renovated apartment, built on the top floor, inside a former palace (read: refurbished attic).
I found a listing for an antique secretary desk—basically the desk of my girlhood dreams—with cubbies and a large writing surface on a hinge that closed up diagonally to stow away the organized chaos, all atop three spacious drawers, decoratively painted in cream with a gold trim. It was gorgeous. The guy said he’d deliver but expressed concern that I was a potential scammer. Our exchange involved me copying and pasting his responses into a translator and reversing that process with my answers. I agreed to take a rideshare out to the grandma’s house where the desk was stored, and I added: “Please don’t be a serial killer” in Portuguese. That seemed to turn the tables on who was concerned about whom, and he quickly offered to load it up and bring it to me to show good faith despite his concerns that I would change my mind once he arrived. He came with a young woman whom I assumed his wife or girlfriend, and as I handed him the money, he directed me to give it to her. She put her hand on the desk and with a quivering chin, shared that it was her father’s desk before he passed away.
