The streets of this city have become more colourful over the last month. The jacaranda trees have come out in full bloom. It’s lovely to see splodges of violet above the head as I wander around. And now that the flowers are falling there are purple patches of pavement. And it reminds you how many trillions of feet have slowly worn down and dirtied the pavements of the city. And in contrast to the muddy grey-brown colour of the paving slabs, it’s such a pleasant thing for the eyes, the eyes that are bombarded in a city, to see a calm, pretty colour. It’s easy to forget city trees. They, as far as I can tell, are the most under-appreciated trees we have. We love the trees in our own gardens, in the local parks, in the countryside when we’re out for a drive. But seeing the jacarandas had made me notice the other trees, too. Here’s some photos.
I had a wee spider on my shoulder yesterday. Teeny one. I was stood at a pedestrian crossing, so I assume he just fancied a lift across the street.
Later today, I’m moving to a new apartment. I’ll still be sharing, but this time with just one person instead of three. And my bedroom has its own bathroom, which is incredibly exciting. It’s one of the things that’s worst about living with other people: having to share the bathroom. And really, the only reason it’s the worst thing is because at least a couple of times a week, you’ll sit down, ready to take a nice, relaxing dump, and you’ll hear someone try to open the door. And then you feel all hurried, and can’t really enjoy the ten minutes or so you’d been looking forward to.
I’m going to be living with my friend Sam’s girlfriend. There really is no way to say that without it sounding a bit creepy. But it’s not creepy. Both Sam and Lina are lovely people, and I get on well with them. And Sam reads this blog, so I pretty much have to say they are nice. Right, Sam? Lina lives in a fancier area of town called Polanco. It’s only about a 20 minute walk from where I am now in Roma Norte, but it has several advantages. It’s very close to a big park; like two minutes away. There’s a Starbucks about the same distance in the other direction, too. And aside from the aforementioned en suite bathroom, there’s a roof terrace. And a communal gym in the building, too. I, of course, have grand plans to use that. Fast forward six months: never used it.
I’ve enjoyed living here. I liked my flatmates. Well, I liked my gay flatmates. I’m quite sure I will still see them again. The girl that was living here was a bit… I dunno. A bit aloof. Were it not for the terrible water situation in the building (at least six or seven times a month, you’ll turn the tap on and nothing will come out, and it’ll stay like that for several hours), and the cilindrero who plays for around five or six hours every day outside my window, which has slowly been driving me nuts; were it not for those two things, I doubt I’d be moving. But I am happy to be moving. It’ll be nice to have another perspective of the city. Get to know another neighbourhood.
Last night the lightbulb in my room stopped working. Moving out today, though, so couldn’t be arsed to go and buy one. Not my pwoblem, guv. So I endured—yes, endured—a whole evening of darkness. So I just got into bed, watched baseball documentaries on my laptop, and ate toast. Toast and Marmite. I’m coming to the end of my highly rationed jar of Marmite, sadly, so the toast I make for it, I try to make it perfectly. Which is difficult here. No toaster. And the oven is full of pans and stuff, which I can never be bothered to get out just to make a couple of slices of toast. So, I toast the bread in a frying pan. Fuck you, Gordon Ramsay, this is how you cook. I wasn’t really hungry, but there were two slices left in the packet, and I don’t really wanna take two slices of bread to my new place. And I didn’t want to chuck them in the bin either. So I sat in bed, eating toast, watching baseball documentaries, in the dark, with the window open, as it’s kinda warm here right now. Crumbs, obviously.
I had an amusing thought—amusing for me, anyway—of falling asleep with the plate on my belly, and then waking up several hours later and seeing a crow had flown in, and was stood on my chest, eating the crumbs off the place. Waking up, and staring deep into the abyss of a crow’s anus. That thought, and the slight paranoia I always have about sleeping with an open window (burglars! burglars! burglars coming to burgle my burgleables!), made me close the window. And it was hot. And I tried to sleep. But it was one of those nights where, just as you drift off, your stupid brain does that dizzy shudder and wakes you up. And each time, you feel more tired, and more awake every time you are jolted up.
Tired, tired, tired, I got out of bed to get a glass of water and urinate, and true to form, the water wasn’t working. No flushing. Water from the big bottle in the kitchen. And for some reason, my flatmate was defrosting the fridge. The top freezer bit had its door open, and on a chair in front of the open door was a ventilator fan thing blowing air into the fridge. You could put that shit in a gallery and call yourself an artist, but there’s no way I’m eating the turkey slices that were sat in the fridge at room temperature all night. That could be the title: “There’s No Way I’m Eating The Turkey Slices,” 2011.
Woke up this morning and found the words “roger cops” written down in my bedside notebook. Obviously, it’s a Sienfeld-ian kind of observation, but I have no idea what that means. It will bug me all day. Right: time to move to a new apartment.