Bed and Water

You should have been here the other night, for the party. Flood party, that is. In one of The Times’ apartments at the Yanagimachi press village.

Some of us were already “home” and sacked out, but Ross Newhan was returning late from a long, hard day of Olympic coverage. Good thing he was late or we all would have awakened in floating beds.

As Ross strolled down our long central hallway in his Olympic- issue slippers, he noticed it was raining. That was unusual, since it wasn’t raining outdoors, and this particular apartment is on the fifth floor of an eight-story building. But there it was, water pouring out of the recessed light fixture onto the polished wooden floor, on which we are not allowed to wear shoes. More water was cascading down one of the kitchen walls. Luckily, the sink was right underneath, so that floor was safe.

Ross was heard to utter a few exclamations as he tried to swim upstream to his room, which awakened some of the rest of us. He alertly called the village reception center to report the disaster, surmising that either a pipe had broken or somebody had left the water running in the bathtub in the apartment above us.

Not to worry, he was told. Someone would be right over.

And sure enough, someone was. Two someones, one in a blue blazer, the other in a gray volunteer’s uniform. They politely knocked and, even more politely, removed their shoes at the door before going to inspect the damage. I think they got their feet wet.

There was much peering upward, lots of discussing--maybe cussing, who would know?--some head scratching.

By now, figuring our duty was done and with an early morning ahead, we went back to bed--to bed, in Ross’ case--and the Japanese guys kept the party going without us. It sounded from the other side of the door as if they were having a great time, talking, laughing, trying to remove ceiling panels without anything to stand on, running in and out.

Eventually, sleep returned. Next morning, the floor was covered by a mound of blankets and the torrent had been reduced to a trickle. But it was still leaking, and the reception center called bright and early to report that an engineer was on his way. When I arrived back at the digs late that night, all was serene. The leak had stopped, the floor was clean and, remarkably, still shiny. Home, sweet home.

Actually, the building we live in soon will be exactly that for many Japanese families. It is scheduled to become public housing after the Games.

That’s a little hard to imagine, since there is no common living area, only a galley-type kitchen, and a bathroom arrangement that is, um, unusual. There are three, one with toilet--western style, praise be--sink and tub-shower, one with toilet and sink only, and the other with a sink and walk-in shower with separate tub.

Still, people manage. Similar buildings in the area are obviously occupied.

Besides, if the people here can live with the flush-with-the floor, slit-trench Japanese toilet, a demonic device that defies dignified usage, they obviously can live with a tiny kitchen and no family room.

And let’s hope that patched pipe holds.