When I arrived, my room was covered in dust and, inexplicably, hardware tools. Now, after I've spent three hours frantically exploding my suitcase into it, it's full of scarves and my clothes and shoes and laundry. It's a single unit with a bunch of shelving, a tiny cookstove, a weenie refrigerator, a curtained closet, and a bathroom that is all one hard curved piece of plastic, like in an airplane or mobile home. It isn't home yet, but it will be soon.
What's nicest is that I'm alone. My room may be grungy, but it is mine, and so I have the freedom to do things like this, namely not wear pants while typing on a laptop. It isn't only my needlessly-exposed legs -- I'm feeling ever more like Carrie Bradshaw recently in other ways, too. Not only am I often confused about what men are thinking, which leads me to ask a lot of rhetorical questions, I do silly, television-worthy things like I did yesterday when -- not listening to the German instructions being read over the loudspeaker on a subway -- I looked up to find that the train had stopped somewhere between stations. The tunnel was dark. Moreover, there were no other passengers on board. I panicked, then pressed the call button, and soon a man came along the tracks and told me through the window, "Three minutes!" It seems I should have taken the BLUE line instead of the RED line, which is a mistake you can't put down to the language barrier.
Mostly, though, this Carrie-feeling is because I don't have a real job, I just blog a hell of a lot. Especially while wearing silly outfits. And my hair has never been bigger.
(Even if I'm not quite sure who my Big is!)
No comments:
Post a Comment