There are some time I have had the privilege to be invited to a house of Malaysian Chinese jolly. There was a big noise in the bar and offered to prepare sashimi. Saturday night, some friends and I stopped outside his palace gates and were introduced. Everything was great, like a wedding cake of three floors with columns and pediments. We peasants English-teaching came with dopey smile, trying not to look as if we were in awe. Personally, I was amazed. I learned that over the house, the harder it is to provide.
No one lived downstairs. Downstairs was a storage area off full of expensive trinkets that would not have looked anywhere else right: polls six feet, ostentatious offices, closets the size of mausoleums, threw three piece suits and boxes and ornaments filling the spaces between. And hidden in the center of the temple relics, was the fish. He looked dejected, which is impressive for a fish. Fortunately, his tank was a good meter and a half long, so there was space to open and close his mouth. And through this jungle of discarded brick-a-brack we reduced our way to the stairs.
Once up, it was the same; a range of curios filed with a kitchenette with soft lighting and a table to sit around. But there was life here, of all kinds. Members of the young and old families lived alone in rooms with bathroom around the periphery. Sometimes doors would open and light spill, and that someone was trying to call for an occupant of another room, then drop and text. Our host was admitted with his cheerful laugh that his family living under one roof, mostly communicated by telephone. It was a wonderful evening drink, sashimi, quick to laugh, staggering to where the money went, and trying not to think that the inhabitants of the sprawling kampung could make out. The long story short, through various similar experiences and serious social documentary as sinetron, I came to realize that smaller is better, perhaps even in the case where I live.
I saw a disheveled private complex in a house based on the same plane as the garage of my father. A previous occupant messed with the layout, which means that our kitchen is now that Luxembourg is Europe and our toilet is a suburb of the city of Luxembourg. We have stairs to a second floor, but no second floor, just a piece of water in the rainy season, we can not turn off. Our kitchen sink is blocked permanently, so when it is the rainy season, we still have a permanent feature of the stagnant pond. And I, my wife, two daughters, her younger sister's friend, sister and two brother-brothers do very well out of it. It is a crowded hutch, but a happy home. And it is a happy home because there is evidence of "human being".
Example :.
• The unsaleable kitsch hanging on my walls In fact, I paint and do it myself - proof of a hobby or interest
• The food smells in my house do not take but not as fresh or unfortunately -. Evidence of culinary interest and skill
• The bike, mini gym and blow bag taking the entrance are well used. - Proof of ... well not much if I'm honest about my appearance
• The humble furniture, we collected is disposed to regular social use and maximum comfort - Evidence whole house is used (not difficult in our case)
. • There tended plants inside and outside in the garden mat size -. Proof of daily maintenance and tried in harmony with our environment
• There is a library with real books that are really read -. Evidence of material interests beyond ourselves
The point being, although my current house is hideous in many ways, you can get an immediate shameless idea who lives there, and feel comfortable.
From these observations, I can say that I would rather experiencing in my architectural prank of a color house millionaire castle cake cream with Greek pediments, Ionic columns and unused space. The interesting thing is that the real Indo living back in the day, real life everywhere, goes beyond the walls. My mother-in-law is always to take a ride twenty-hour bus to and from the city to be with us (yeh!) For any emergency in the family, while in the house of my merry host the second paragraph they only knew each other by phone. Looking around, Mr. and Mrs. Yusuf public in the comics do well. As a final thought, maybe this is not the poor who need rescue. They have their kitsch and they cherish, and I like it. The other 99th in complex like mine and cake castles have the quantity, but quality?