My Lemon Tart-Sized Poverty

They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade — unless you’re fortunate enough to bake a lemon tart. Our home, a slice of that lemon tart, was a triangular patch of land nestled between worn-out roads. The Wedge of Land was our name for the place. My husband and I lived there, on that land. This was back in 1978 or ’79.

Picture this: a perfect round lemon tart, its glossy surface split into twelve neat, triangular pieces. Take one — just one — and set it down in front of you. As you sip your tea, take a good hard look at it. Imagine a patch of land shaped like the tip of that tart. It was a perfect triangle, sharp at one end and wide at the base, as if someone had sliced it from a round, sun-kissed lemon. This was our little haven, nestled between two worn-out roads, where every corner held a story of struggle. The ground was dry and cracked, much like the tart that left a sour taste on my tongue — a place where hope lingered, but so did the weight of financial hardship. Each day, we tackled the edges of this triangle, trying to carve out a piece of sweetness in a life that often felt too tart to bear.

So, how did a plot of land end up with such a strange shape? You might wonder, or maybe not. Either way, I don’t have the answer. My husband tried asking some of the neighbors, but all we learned was that it’s always been a triangle — long ago, now, and likely far into the future. No one seemed eager to discuss this “Wedge of Land.” It was like mentioning some awkward, unspoken blemish, which was best ignored. Probably because of how oddly shaped it was.

In terms of livability, the Wedge of Land was downright awful. The noise alone was enough to drive anyone crazy. But really, what else would you expect? Living sandwiched between two railroad tracks, it was impossible to escape the constant racket. Open the front door, and a train would roar by. Open the back window, and yet another would thunder past, so close you could practically reach out and touch it. And when I say “close,” I mean it — close enough to meet the eyes of passengers and give them a nod. Looking back, it’s kind of unbelievable.

You’d think the nights would finally quiet down after the last train rumbled by, right? I thought the same thing before moving in. Turns out, there was no such thing as a “last train.” The final passenger train came just before 1 A.M., but then came the freight trains. And as soon as those were done, the morning passenger trains would start right up again. It was a never-ending cycle, day in and day out.

Crazy, I know.

We ended up choosing this place for one very simple reason: it was dirt cheap. A detached house with three rooms, a bath, and even a small garden — all for the price of a tiny studio apartment. Since it was a stand-alone house, we could bring our cat along, too. Honestly, it felt like the place had been made just for us. Newly married and, not to exaggerate, we could’ve easily been listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the “World’s Poorest Couple.” We found the house by chance, displayed in the window of a real-estate office near the station. With rent this low and a decent layout, it felt like we’d hit the jackpot. Unbelievable, really.

“Yeah, it’s cheap, no doubt about that,” the bald real estate agent said. “But fair warning — it’s really noisy. If you can handle that, I guess you could call it a lucky find.”

“Would you mind showing it to us?” my husband asked.

“Sure, but why don’t you two just go on your own? Every time I head over there, I get a headache.”

He handed us the keys and quickly sketched out a map. What a laid-back guy.

On the map, the Wedge of Land looked like it was just a short walk from the station, but the reality was far from that. We had to navigate around the railroad tracks, climb an overpass, and trudge up and down a dirty hill before finally reaching the back of the Wedge of Land. Not a single store in sight. The area felt forgotten, and run down — a completely seedy neighborhood.

My husband and I stepped into the house at the very tip of the Wedge of Land and spent about an hour just hanging out. During that time, trains rumbled past one after another. Whenever an express train thundered by, the windows shook violently, drowning out our voices. We’d start a conversation, only to be cut off as the train barreled through. Once the noise faded, we’d pick up where we left off, only to be interrupted again moments later by yet another train. Our communication felt choppy and fragmented, reminiscent of a Jean-Luc Godard film.

Aside from the noise, the house had its unique character. It was a traditional wooden structure, with intricate carvings typical of Javanese design, while also featuring sliding Japanese shoji doors that let in the spring sunlight. though it needed some serious repairs, it had a lovely tokonoma alcove and a small outdoor sitting area that added to its appeal. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting playful shadows and creating warm, sunny squares on the tatami flooring. It reminded me of the house I had lived in during my childhood. “Let’s take it,” I said, feeling a sense of nostalgia wash over me. “I know it’s noisy, but we’ll adapt.”

“If that’s how you feel, I’m on board,” my husband replied with a smile.

“Sitting here together like this feels like we’re a family,” he remarked.

“Well, we are married,” I replied.

“True enough,” he conceded with a smile.

Afterward, we returned to the real-estate agency to inform the bald agent of our decision.

“Are you sure? Isn’t it too noisy?” the guy inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, it is, but we’ll adjust,” my husband assured him.

He removed his glasses, wiped them clean with a tissue, took a sip of tea, and then put his glasses back on to scrutinize both of us.

“Well, that’s because both of you are young,” he remarked.

“Right,” my husband agreed.

With that, we filled out the rental agreement, ready to seize our new life.

A friend’s small minivan was more than sufficient for our move. We packed up our mattresses, clothes, a lamp, a few books, and our cat — those were our only possessions. Nothing more. No radio, no TV, no washer, dining table, gas stove, telephone, kettle, or vacuum cleaner. That was a testament to our financial situation. As a result, our move was remarkably quick, taking only half an hour. Life can be simpler when you have less to manage.

When our friend saw our new home, nestled between the railroad lines, his expression turned to disbelief. After we unloaded everything, he tried to speak, but his words were swallowed by the roar of a passing express train.

“What did you say?” my husband asked, straining to hear him.

“Can you believe people actually live in a place like this?” he remarked, a mix of awe and disbelief in his voice.

We spent two years in that house.

It was poorly constructed, with wind sneaking through cracks and gaps everywhere. In the summer, it was tolerable, but come winter, it turned into a nightmare. With no money for a space heater, my husband, the cat, and I would huddle under the blanket as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, clinging to one another for warmth. Many mornings, we’d wake up to find the water in the kitchen faucet frozen solid.

But as winter faded, spring arrived, bringing a welcome change. My husband, the cat, and I would breathe a sigh of relief. In April, the railroads went on strike for a few days, and we were overjoyed — no trains rumbling past. We carried the cat down to the railroad tracks and basked in the sun. The stillness was so profound it felt like we were sitting at the bottom of a lake. We were young, freshly married, and the sunshine was ours for the taking!

Even now, whenever I hear the word “poor,” I envision that narrow, triangular piece of land and wonder who might call it home today.