I paged through the classified section of the St. Petersburg Times, the popular English newspaper for expats in St. Petersburg, Russia. ìApts in city center, great views, 3 rooms, skylights, Jacuzzi, all for $400/month.” Sounds fantastic, but strikingly similar to the apartment ads Iíve been warned against. Unscrupulous characters place ads in local newspapers to lure expats into their offices. Of course, they have no intention of showing the non-existent apartment described in the ad.

The renter will say: “Oh, I’m sorry. We just rented that one. But we have one more, and it’s a good thing you called us because it’s quite hard to find an apartment this time of year.” What you are shown is a far cry from what you expected.

During my first few months in St. Petersburg, I lived in a hotel. The price was right, but in return for affordability, I gave up privacy. Coming in late at night from roaming around the city, I would ring the buzzer at the door. A poor, aged soul would drag herself awake to come to the door and let me in. My guilt at continually waking this woman up curtailed my late-night adventures, and I would return to my room, only to lie awake for hours unable to sleep. The hotel staff felt sorry for me, and thought I suffered from mental deficiency. This pattern started on the morning of the last Sunday in September. Reading my Lonely Planet Russia that weekend, I noticed that this day was the start of winter time, and the clocks turned back one hour.

However, I couldnít be sure of this, as the only timepieces I had to go on were my own. At breakfast that morning, I tried to ask in Russian if the time had changed. The housekeeper just looked at me sadly, and brought me a HUGE piece of cake, as if to say, ìEat up, your brain needs nourishment!” When I went out I finally saw the time displayed digitally. No time change had occurred (but it would a month later). From that morning on, I received a pitying smile and extra food with breakfast. At the rate I was going, I felt like I was gaining a kilo a day. Time to get out of this family run hotel!

So, where to find a reliable apartment agent? A couple of guys I met at a party recommended their agent. I called her, gave her my requirements for an apartment, and arranged to meet her the next day.

After looking at several apartments, it was clear that the rental dollar doesnít go a long way for a foreigner in St. Petersburg. Although the places she showed me all seemed clean, they were terribly furnished with combinations of patterns and colors painful to the western eye. One small apartment looked like the site of a motel room crime scene ñ Soviet style. Dark, wooden veneer wardrobes abutted the ceilings. A full sized bed made of a cheap black metal fame took up most of the space in the room. There were no chairs or a table. Two windows on one wall looked out onto a dismal courtyard surrounded by concrete buildings that blocked out natural light. ìGreat for winter,” I thought, ìWhen the city experiences the opposite of White Nights and dark days have been known to drive inhabitants into deep depression.”

ìHow much for this one?” I asked, expecting a price of about two hundred dollars, which, I should add, is approximately the average monthly salary for Peterburgians. ìFive hundred and fifty dollars a month,” she replied.

How could this be? I had lived for the past twelve years of my post college life in D.C. and Baltimore, never paying more than $400 a month for either my own apartment or part of a house. But here in Russia, the odds are stacked against the foreigner. Scams are common. Rules are different. Foreigners pay dearly for not knowing the game. It was time to lower my expectations.

We looked at eight more apartments and I settled on the least aesthetically offensive one. The next night, documents were signed in both English and Russian. I needed to cough up $1800 ñ one monthís rent, one monthís security deposit, and one monthís agentís fee, to receive the keys. The agent only accepted American dollars. (Even though it is technically illegal to use currency other than the ruble in Russia, everyone demands dollars and euros from foreigners.) To obtain this large sum in dollars, I ran around to ATMs for three days to collect enough rubles to exchange for dollars.

Ten days later, the apartment was mine. It was newly renovated, but some of the workmanship was questionable. The toilet paper holder wouldnít hold the toilet paper and the towel rack fell off the wall when I hung up a towel. There were ripples in the linoleum on the kitchen floor near the sink, suggesting a leak. A strange unidentifiable smell came from the kitchen. Some visitors guessed cat urine; others thought it was a gas leak from the stove.

The living room was decorated with pink walls, a red flowery carpet and a matching set of faux red velvet sofa and chairs. Frilly orange curtains hung from the windows. In the bedroom, a strange bright pink bedspread, made of some sort of synthetic material, covered the bed. An attempt at modernization in the furnishings was evident, but the layout and color schemes still adhered to what I perceive as a lingering Soviet culture that continues to give Russia a unique taste for style.

On the upside, the apartment was warm and clean. Valentina the landlord came every month to collect the rent and make sure that I wasnít destroying the place. Occasionally, Iíd arrive home from work to find all of the appliances unplugged from their wall outlets and things moved around. I guess she was right to be concerned about the electricity. Once, while heating water in an electric kettle, a fire started in the outlet and melted the extension cord.

Utilities in St. Petersburg are unreliable. I have lost telephone service three times, once for an unpaid eighteen-cent phone bill. The refrigerator broke while I had two foreign houseguests, and it took ten days to be fixed. Not the lap of luxury by any means, but I survived the year. Now itís time to start over and look for a new apartment.