If you live here you're only a short bike ride or walk from campus, and you're right on the bus line. So that's good. If you have a car you can park in the potholed gravel pit that passes for a lot, or you can park on the street... unless some idiot is having a party, in which case you'll have to park a couple blocks away.

When you come home to your humble domicile, try not to grimace in disgust. The apartments are approximately seven hundred years old, ancient and crumbling like Greek ruins. The bathtubs are encrusted with white deposits an inch thick, thanks to decades of Davis water evaporating from the surface. The fan above the stove is plastered with grease. The countertops and floors are scarred, stained, and burned from run-ins with retarded undergrads who have never lived away from Mommy before.

When something breaks or stops working, which, not surprisingly, happens every couple of weeks, don't get your hopes up that it will ever be fixed. The management is nice and polite and understanding, but they work for the realty company, which is slow, stupid, uncaring, and apparently run by robots with dead batteries. You will need to ask two or three times before anybody shows up to replace the pipe that squirts water everywhere through holes worn into the metal from years of Chem 2B students figuring that concentrated HCl stolen from the chem lab is just as good as Drano for opening clogs.

The noise level in the complex varies from year to year. The first two years I lived here there were mostly grad students and huge immigrant families in the other units. Some little kids, but let me tell you, a giggling, stoned 19-year-old UCD student is generally more obnoxious than even the most spoiled toddler. The final year of my residence here we were bombarded by a herd of screeching, drooling, binge-drinking, nocturnal undergrads, who were seniors but acted like they had just been sprung from Tercero. They did nothing but hack up chunks of lung between puffs of their cigarettes, and loudly blather on their cell phones in the courtyard. Especially that doughy jackass who used to write the sports page for the Aggie and needed everyone to know that someone loved him enough to listen to him whine on the phone.

If you are loud and annoying and need to stand outside your neighbors' windows at 3 am helping your friend puke up his eighteenth jello shot you will not get your lease renewed. If you're a dumb lumbering frat boy who needs to plug the guitar into the amplifier while you're at home you will not get your lease renewed. Shut up, stop bitching, and move back to Castilian if you don't like it.

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