The walk home is different every time. It starts with a curt revaluation of my life and as I am piecing my stupidity together, I see a stuffed Burt and Ernie reminding me what I did. Then comes the trip across the hall to the elevator and then down the elevator and then the fight with the first door and when I open that door a guy is there asking about the building and the residents and I don't understand why in the world he would think I live here, or why I would be leaving my apartment in gogo shorts, boots, a t shirt and a raincoat. Then again, maybe the Spanish are less presumptuous. From there I fight to find the second buzzer to let me out of the second door and hope that I turn the right way because I took a cab here and how in the world am I supposed to remember where we turned? Then the real trek home begins because if by some miracle I have conquered Bert, Ernie, the buzzers, the man asking about the building and still managed not to throw myself onto a knife, I have successfully qualified for the pole position. Time to put it in first gear and walk through the streets filled with children eating gelato and their parents and their grandparents all wholesome and fresh faced. Lining cobble stone sidewalks that they manage to wash every night are the hoards of sour orange trees, still green in late October. These are the oranges that all the stupid Americans think would be so delicious and spoiler alert they aren't. As I cross the street I see the river, and I want so badly to jump in, to pull a Virginia Woolf and put myself out of my misery. Crossing the bridge makes it even worse because by this time I have put on my sunglasses and started smoking a cigarette which I hope makes me look more Spanish because everyone smokes and maybe if I am smoking I won't stick out for the guilt all over my face. Now I am close, now is the moment when I start praying that the elevator will be waiting for me on the bottom floor because my knee hurts from slipping in the street the week before. Slipping the key into the keyhole I twist the cogs and open the door to my flat where there are a number of people sitting around eating brunch. Buenos dias, because if I don't say that they will think I am rude which is really the last thing I need. From there, I go into my shared room and lay down, realizing I forgot to ask:
Does this coke come in diet?