It’s called booze. Just kidding! I thought about what would have happened if I were still drinking, and how I probably would have tried to hole up and avoid the problem of finding a place to live. And when I did look, I’d be hung over, trying to make it look like I hadn’t been hammered to the point of blackout the night before.
I found a place that I was interested in. No creepy guys, no young folks. No, actually, there is a five year old, and I fully intend that she will be speaking some English before I leave. My Spanish should end up being amazing. I’ll be only 2 or 3 blocks from the metro, on a dead-end street, in a big bedroom, and with a kind woman, another renter, and the aforementioned short stack.
On to the next thing.