[continued from previous entry]
Before leaving, went for a fast look at my brand new rental space, home to my modest heap of rubbish for the next twelve months. Out of the office into chilly air. Up stairs. Up more stairs. Down strange surreally artificial-looking hallways (floor, walls, doors (all identical apart from their numbers), more doors, still more doors, fluorescent lighting). All the way to door B032. Convinced key to fit into lock, fiddled until door opened. And there it was: space. Two meters squared worth. Not a whole lot of space, actually, I realized, staring at it. But enough, my life here being on the austere side when it comes to material hooha.
Locked door, retraced route (hallways, stairs, more stairs), found myself out in chilly open air, sound of passing cars from the nearby arterial providing post-modern ambient soundtrack. Made long, long trek to pedestrian bridge, sun peeking through clouds now and then. Crossed sometimes-four-sometimes-six-lane. Got to bus-waiting-shelter thingie a minute or two before bus pulled up, nearly full, passengers silent. A business-suited, shades-wearing, iPodding 20-something sat on the aisle seat, blocking access to one of the few free sitting spots. I gestured at the empty space, making a gesture of inquiry, he graciously got to his feet, letting me squeeze by. I sat, he sat. Bus pulled out. Time passed. Passengers got off, others got on. Eventually found myself back underground, doing the Metro ride in reverse. (Same entertainment during inter-train transfer: woman/mid-tempo pop, male playing pretty decent accordion.) Finally surfaced back here in the barrio (the face of Spongebob Squarepants smiling at me from a pin on a 20-something's daypack), sun gone once more, arrived here in the building to the thunderous din of workers having far too much fun hammering on increasingly plasterless walls. (See previous entry.)
Pulling the trigger on the storage rental became the unofficial starting point for getting serious about putting my life here on hold. Shelves and drawers are slowly being emptied, some things being tossed/recycled, others getting stuffed into boxes. People outside in the halls pound away at walls/ceiling (tinny transistor radio blaring), dust finds its way in around the cracks in the door, complicating life, giving vacuum cleaner plenty of exercise.
A month ago, that vacuum cleaner died. Brought it to a shop tucked away on a sidestreet in a barrio a hefty Metro ride away. A week later, had it back, giving thanks for the simple blessing of a working dirt sucker. A few days ago, realized that the washer was no longer spinning, meaning clothes had to be wrung out by hand, taking forever to dry. Got the okay from the landlords yesterday morning to phone a repair-person. Made the call, half an hour later a rumpled 60ish guy appeared at my door, tool kit in hand -- tired, friendly in a world-weary way. I pointed him into the kitchen, a trail of white plaster footprints appeared in his wake. A fast diagnosis, a price for the work that I went with. He returned to his truck, came back carrying a plastic bag bulging with belts. A ton of belts, but none of them, turned out, the right one. He offered to return later in the day with the correct item and finish up. Several hours later he was back, bringing the washer to life. White footprints followed him out of the flat, me calling out profuse thanks as he disappeared down the stairs into clouds of drifting dust.
[continued in next entry]
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Empty display window/abandoned shop, Madrid:
España, te quiero
rws 6:02 PM [+]
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