Despite Rocio being brusque and slightly on the bossy side, she has made the kitchen and "living room", if it can be called one, a bit more homey. She finally insisted on installing an Andalucian heating system: a blanket over the kitchen table. Me da igual - it's equal to me/I don't care. Having to be stuck at the kitchen table when I am at home in order to keep warm is almost pointless. I live in my inherited puffy jacket. All day, all night.
Anyways, today the readout on the dash of the taxi said 18 degrees. Yesterday and the day before he told me it had been reading 2 or 3. I now have a very large tilting table in this place that I am still feeling uncomfortable in. I should have taken the apartment in Triana, from where the girl who sold it me was leaving. It was bright, big, nice and with nice girls. Concha thinks that smoking in her room will solve the problem. I still haven't had a chance to tell her the only way that it will work is if she opens the window to let the smoke out. (How I hate to ask that of someone... if she has any problem with doing it, which she very well may, then I need to leave.) What an awful, awkward situation. I don't want to be demanding of such a nice person. I go in my room and close the door(s) when I am here. They have to remain as closed as they can, which isn't very closed, being two very funky old half-doors that are warped at the top, with a large space at the bottom, and no proper handle to close them. From the inside there is a lame latch. I stuff bags under the doors at night.
My intuition is always wrong, it seems. At least when it comes to living arrangements. All my life I have been taught to trust it. It cannot be trusted, evidently. I think I should hire someone else to choose the correct place for me next time.
Salome, a dancer friend from Vancouver here for a couple months has a worse place though. She asked me for tips finding places here. I did my best but I couldn't really help her in the end. She found this place with a literally crazy Russian lady who controls everything, doesn't let her have an extra blanket or heating, even after her brother went back to Costa Rica, and there obviously is an extra blanket. It was nice to have her visit yesterday. She brought wraps, tea and coffee, beer and even lemon to put in it. I told her she didn't have to bring all this, and she says, "I am a mother, you know!" We sat in the dark "living room" while Rocio blasted the TV with "Dead Man Walking" dubbed in Spanish of course, and Salome and I tried not to cry about Sean Penn about to be electrocuted or whatever barbaric thing they do to them. It was cold in the dark "living room" and Concha had taken away the lighter (needed for the stove) to her room and appeared to be gone to sleep. So I made a note to buy my own lighter and keep it in secret reserve, and we didn't have anything else hot to drink but went and talked flamenco sitting on my bed, huddled up to the heater. It all feels very starving artist. How many times have I said it already? - the standard of living here is not equal to that at home... that is, if it is measured in heat and hot water, fitting doors, and toilet seats and shower heads that actually stay where they belong. At least Concha is an adult with a job and feels like she can afford to leave on the pilot light of the gas hot water heater. Still, it takes too long to wait until the water is heated up to have warm water to wash your hands in every time you actually need it. Chilblains.
I must try to remember what the heck my "heart" really cares about and try to concentrate on that. Sometimes I don't know though.
Hmmm... at least I have two tables. What luxury. You should see my huge drafting table!
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