I work at home. I write. I launch and maintain too many projects. Every once in awhile I kill one off... and start a new one. I Invest. Uninvest. Invest again and take the loss for my cowardice. There is not a lot of human interaction from 9:00 until 5:15. Yes those are school hours.
It gets abstract. The kitchen table is the last stop before the wifi ends in the living room so I wind up there. It’s not bad as kitchen tables go and occasionally the sun banks off the interior wall of the light well and I am reminded of just how beautiful it is here. It’s happening right now… the sun is going in out of the clouds. It’s getting brighter and darker. Jan, my teenage downstairs neighbor is practicing an aria, he wants to be be an opera singer. Considering that he practices for at least 3 hours a day he might just make it. I hope so. The world needs more opera singers and less bankers. He’s a sweet kid.
The door to the edificio has just slammed. Someone is in the elevator. If they are coming to visit me they will have to go up to the 3rd floor and walk down because the button for my floor is broken. It’s been that way for a month now. Yes, the landlord has been informed. My neighbor and friend Montse and I discussed it at length. Regarding the slamming door, it’s louder in summer because the hydraulic fluid in the stopper is less viscous because of the temperature. In the summer it sounds a lot like a gunshot. In the winter less so. I really have been here for a very long time.
Every morning I try to get out at 11:00 or so and go have a merienda. Mostly I go to Bar Clau in the Mercat de Libertat. Silvia and Angels the propietario and the rest, they treat me like I am their long lost brother back from the war. I usually have a coffee con leche and pastisset but sometimes I cheat and have bocadillo mediano de atún and a cañita… it’s ok… it’s Spain. And… they always slip me a full size bocadillo... but I’m not telling. I sit at the corner of the counter and read the newspaper. Often it’s the sports pages because it’s all that is left… Once I had to read the flyer from Miro because that was all that was available. It’s ok, I’m not reading that intently, I’m listening to the jubilados and the old women talk about what’s up in the neighborhood, who sold what to who at the polleria and how the grand kids are doing in school. Sometimes there are paletas and lampistas and pintores talking about the game or hammers or the removal of an ornery toilet. I pay my 2 euros 15 and walk back feeling happy and content.
The door just slammed. Jan has stopped singing, it must be lunch time. These are my adopted people. This is my home.