“Tomorrow” always comes a few days later than I expect it to.
So, I promised that I’d talk a little bit about my fabulous new home near Plaza Santa Ana last post ’round, and I plan to make good on that. I live here with three Spaniards–Juan Carlos, an unidentified girl I’ve not yet met because she’s on summer holidays (as is Juan Carlos), and Pedro, the totally rad, pocket-sized Asturian chef. My fourth roommate is the one who sold me on this place almost upon meeting him, the Italian, Francesco. Francesco, an engineer, is affable, lively, very funny and speaks really amazing English. Francesco is also a tiny bit of a liar. You see, when I met him, Francesco asked me if I was British. I said “No, I’m American.”
He replied, “Even better!”
“And where are you from?” I asked him.
“I’m Israeli!” he told me with a huge grin. I, goggle-eyed and delighted (I totally love Jews. No, really. Katie (Gemela) and I have discussed this at length already and have determined that Jews are a recurring theme of my life), believed him, and considered only briefly, “Hmm. Francesco. Weird name for a dude from Israel.” We totally hit it off and I didn’t think too much more of the incongruous name or his peculiar accent, especially because he showed me out with a warm, encompassing hug and also showed off his toys, which confirmed for me that Fran and I were going to be friends (see below):
Now, let’s flash forward two days. I’d spent the day moving in and Fran invited me out to dinner with him and his Italian friends, Marco the spy and Mario, the Italian gynecologist (I swear I’m not joking. He’s an Italian gynecologist. There’s got to be a dirty joke for that somewhere.), plus a really nice French girl who is miraculously taller than I. As we waited for his friends to show, Francesco told me, “I’ve known them since we were boys in the University in Roma.”
Befuddled, I asked, “You went to University in Rome?”
“Of course,” said Fran expansively, almost looking offended, “I’m a good Roman!”
Roman? I thought. Wait… “But you told me you were Israeli!” I crowed, a mixture of indignant and confused. I stared at my comely Roman roommate, who only shrugged, looking extremely unconcerned.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said with a saucy wink, “But I’m Italian.”
Suddenly, the accent and the name made sense. I decided I didn’t mind being tricked and he insists his new nickname be Shalom. And hey–even if he’s not from Israel, Fran is still pretty cool and knows how to furnish a house and pick a good pizzeria.
So, enough about Francesco and my being tricked. Without further ado, here are some shots of my sweet new pad:
Here’s another sweet shot of the living room, which at about noon gets the most amazing light streaming in through the French doors:
And here’s where I get to cook! Owing to the fact that Pedro is a chef, the kitchen came equipped with every spice known to man, (except for my nutmeg–I had to go get that myself), an entire Serrano ham leg, shrouded and on a rack, a blender, and even a microplane! JOY!
Now. Let me preface the shot of my bedroom by explaining that everyone here has a completely bitchin’ bedroom except for me. I think that I live in what was intended to be a walk-in closet, but happily, the rent is about equivalent, I get to enjoy the super nice, airy common spaces, and you know…I always wanted a loft bed.
So there you have it! If you do wantz more, head to the flickr page where I’ll be uploading new photos soon. I’m comfy and happy here. The only adjustments left to be made are a) purchase of a trash can, b) purchase of a second pillow that doesn’t suck (because I’m hopeful that someday I’ll have company in my nest), c) enlist Fran and Pedro to bolt the very shaky, oceanically-moving bed to the wall for the same reason as found in part b, and d) get some wall adornments up in this piece. Any suggestions? I’m thinking of making something myself. The question is what?
Okay. Considering that I’ve promised myself I’ll get up early enough tomorrow to walk the 1.5 miles to the gym and take the Danza Oriental (Oriental Dance) class (eee! so exciting!), I should probably try to get to bed. I hope I no longer feel like I’m having a giardia relapse when I wake up in the morning. There’s too much to look forward to this week for me to feel like crap: Oriental dance, Amber’s return to Madrid, Lauren’s arrival and did I mention that David, my favorite Basque, is coming home from Budapest on Saturday? (insert grin here). I know I oughtn’t wish away my vacation, but I’m pretty excited for the weekend.
Also, in the event that you were looking for something to get incorrigibly stuck in your head (’cause lawd knows it has in mine), meet Matthew Barber, a.k.a. Mr. Darcy: