Sunday was an exciting day for me because I finally got to move to an new apartment, and move out of the cold, grungy eight-bed dorm where I was starting to think I was going to spend the rest of my life (ok, the rest of my time in Buenos Aires, but still). Another couple of days and I would have started to develop hostel mold. A month of laying awake at night scratching mosquito bites or listening to my Korean dorm mate's prodigious snoring capacities. A month of wearing wrinkled clothing, of finding my pajamas and sleeping pills using my cellphone flashlight, and of turning the fridge upside down only to discover that someone else has eaten my dinner. Not to mention trying to get a grasp of the economic transformations of the early colonial period in the vice-royalty of Peru while judging by the activity around me 'consumption' might as well refer to beer, fernet con coca and marijuana, and 'production,' to laughter and chatter.
I have seen all kinds of apartments, from the bad to the downright awful. The first prize goes to the dimly-lit den of the crazy architect. When I visited the house, I was greeted at the top of the stairs by a garishly painted mannequin wearing faux furs. My first instinct was to run away, but I politely followed the rest of the tour, smiling and nodding despite my deepening dismay, at the somber windowless room that could have been mine, and the disturbing works of art that the old man painted in his spare time, which adorned the walls of every room. My other favourite was the apartment of a young optimistic Argentine. It wasn't so much an apartment as a personal project, seeing that most of the rooms were still under construction or lacked a roof. "It's fully liveable" he assured me, but I was having trouble digesting this affirmation when the kitchen consisted of a plastic sink in the corner of the patio. I'll give him A for effort, but a girl needs more than a set of plastic chairs and a do-it-yourself desk to feel at home.
It was therefore a relief to find this apartment, a no-frills place shared by three twenty-something French girls. The apartment did not impress me when I visited, but the girls were welcoming, and delightfully 'normal'. I was also charmed by the large windows, the sunny balcony and the great location. I left saying I would give it a thought, but I called the next day to say I would take it. One of the girls was returning to France on Saturday, and I was told I could move in the next day.
My two roommates are typical French girls. They speak with that snooty nonchalance, are constantly smoking cigarettes on the balcony or through the kitchen window, and recognize cheese as a sacred foodstuff. Marie is a skinny, energetic, bespectacled girl who seems to live off of pasta and cigarettes. She is not ashamed to laugh out loud when there is nobody around. She is the kind of person whose metabolism seems to be running on espresso shots and requires at least four meals a day if she doesn't want to disappear. Amal, on the other hand, is far more laid-back. Her Moroccan heritage has endowed her with gorgeous dark skin and and a beautifully curvy body. Her bedroom is the smallest, a closet-like space accessed through the kitchen, where there is barely enough room for a mattress on the floor and a bedside table, but she spends most her time out of the apartment. She studies commerce in Buenos Aires, but admits hardly going to class (at eight in morning, I don't blame her, especially when we're in Argentina).
My two stereotypically French roommates each have a stereotypically Argentine boyfriend. Marie's boy is ever so slightly geeky and speaks in a string a 'che's and 'boludo's (and when M is concerned, it's 'nena, nena, nena, nena!') Marie's Spanish has obviously strongly been influenced by him because she speaks exactly like him, a cute French version of him. Amal's boyfriend is more of a tall and quiet type. He keeps his hair styled and wears a black leather jacket. I am also told that he is quite the handyman. Every time there something broken in the apartment, he comes to the rescue. Amal hardly speaks Spanish and her boyfriend doesn't speak a word of French, but that doesn't seem to impede them in any way. They communicate to each other in a broken, heavily-accented English which I find very amusing. Despite any cultural differences, both relationships seem to be going strongly, and both couples are a joy to be around.
The apartment is what you'd expect from a group of young women: minimal order and a few endearing touches - makeup kit on the TV set, cold pizza balancing on a pile of dirty pots on the stove-top, half-dead plant on the living room table. Add mate on the table, empanada takeout magnets on the fridge, a dysfunctional toilet and some empty Quilmes bottles in the kitchen corner and bam! you're in Argentina.
The Kitchen / La Cocina
The Bathroom / El Baño
My Bedroom / Mi Habitación
The Balcony / El Balcón
My favourite part of my new apartment are the large windows. In the morning, sunlight pours into my bedroom and I can wake up pretending that summer has never ended. I can also start to heal and forget the things I have had to go through.
April has been a strange, strange month. I've had champagne with prostitutes, eaten sushi in a jacuzzi and kissed a stranger in the street (more like he kissed me). I've spends hours and hours wandering the city streets at nights crying, wishing or simply wondering what in the world I was doing here. The last few months haven't been easy. I've felt humiliation, hatred and desperation like never before in my life. Maybe eventually, I'll be able to tell you bit by bit parts of that story, although some parts, I know, will remain secret forever.
