Donde esta mi casa?!

Apartment hunting is normally something I enjoy. You get to meet with people, see a bunch of properties, pick one out, write a check, and boom! You're home! To say my feelings have changed about the hunt in the past four days would be a harsh understatement.  In Madrid, half of the people showing the properties don't speak a word of English, and there seems to be no set standard on how much a deposit is, whats included, and the level of cleanliness is that constitutes "livable."

Thus far I've viewed:

• A beautiful apartment with a bed in the wall, but its windows look out on a nearly basement level view of concrete.
• A huge studio great light that had so much built up dirt you could barely see what color the floor was, and was situation across the street from a gigantic gay club. My favorite part of this one was the landlord trying to explain to me (in Spanish nonetheless) that during the day it was tranquil and luminous, but at night you had to seal the windows and use sound proof curtains to keep the club noise out…
• A funky attic apartment with a window in every room (unheard of), that was on a fifth floor with only narrow staircases (no elevator…) and no air conditioning.
• A tiny apartment that, if I were able to do a split, I wouldn't have enough room to do so.  
• A fantastic studio with a lofted bed, spanish style tiled bathroom, hydromassage shower, and everything else wonderful that a tiny studio can have.  But that later changed the date of the rental on me, and said I would have to wait two extra weeks to move in. Argh.

I'm sure more than half of my complaints seem like I'm being too picky, but after spending the past 10 days living out of a suitcase and the past 5 days living in a 62 year old woman's home, I'm getting restless and quick to snap.  

Unfortunately, for now, all I have is a rant. No resolution yet. I'll keep ya all posted.