a curious conversation

In most corners of the Western world, Monday is sprinkled with shrugs, groans and lead-filled sighs. You'd hate the day more if you just had the energy. But this year, Monday has gotten a face lift. Lighter, more pleasant and easier on the eye, the transformation of my Monday is not unlike that of Matthew Perry after his latest stint in rehab.

I rise not to the sound of clumsy flatmates dropping various gels, creams and soiled panties in the bathroom but to my own alarm clock -- set two hours later than normal. I relish in the silence, as I have only come to discover how much I truly cherish quiet spaces this year. If there is anything to appreciate about Rachel's presence, it's that it devalues the supposed worth of interpersonal communication. And living in the eurozone, I'll take a devalued currency wherever I can find it.

At any rate, this morning was rather formulaic: blue cereal bowl, beige cereal that occasionally gives hints of flavor and soy milk; a quick perusal of international events (re: checking Paul Krugman's latest article from a Spanish IP address); general primping. Today, I had to gather some wool goods for my upcoming trip to Geneva, as my hosts tell me it's about as frosty as the reception Karl Rove received following his super-FAIL spending this past November.

Painful analogies aside, I headed out the door when I was stopped by Juanjo, the doorman. To be sure, Juanjo and I aren't exactly close, as we nearly came to blows over my misunderstanding of trash collection hours. No matter, though; he's good at what he does in that he shows up. "Sah-bah-NEE-tah" (Savannah, spoken colloquially with the -ita ending is indicative of slight size and also a term of endearment), he says, "I need to talk with you."

He says that he walked to the lobby this morning and was very alarmed to find a shattered wine bottle in the foyer, and that the next time he had to clean up after us we would be charged 55 euro each for damages. My first thought was surprisingly one of glee, as I guess it's not written on my forehead that I spend most Sunday nights happily alone, reading and listening to my favorite dead chanteuses sing in languages I don't really understand and therefore find more meaningful. But then my second thought, riding on the tail of the first, was "Wow, I'm really insulted."

None of us had done anything remotely interesting the night prior, save for Siddhi who was on a flight back from her weekend in New York, keeping warm with her pommes frites to-go (yes, she calls french fries pommes frites; I know because I had the audacity to ask her why she brought french fries all the way back with her to Spain this evening. And let me tell you, with the way she looked at me in response I felt like I had suddenly lost all but three teeth due to a meth addiction I'd acquired in the third grade). Told him that, to which he replied that that was fine and well, and he could always check the video footage later (so much for presumption of innocence?), but we generally needed to be more considerate of our neighbors. Lingering on that thought for a bit too long, I took Juanjo's bait and asked what he meant.

"Well," he said, "your upstairs neighbor is about to die. Probably sometime this week and his family just needs quiet."

There was something lost in translation about what illness the man had specifically (I gleaned that it's the old man I've met and talked to a few times before since moving in; he does live directly above me and we asked his permission before throwing a housewarming party), but I did catch onto the fact that his current state had been a long time coming.

Obviously sensing that the conversation had quickly crashed into an uncomfortable and unsettling (for me, at least) ditch, Juanjo tried to redirect the conversation somewhere lighter. "But anyway, once you hear the ambulance sirens you all can have your parties again." He smiled, patted me on the shoulder and said goodbye.

Suffice it to say I didn't end up buying any scarves and it's become quite difficult to look up at my ceiling and enjoy the quiet.