flat

I share a 3-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor with two graphic designers-slash-layout artists. When we were deciding on our room assignments, I told them I’m not very fussy about where I sleep as long as I have my own space where I can set up my own one-man civilization. In the end, however, they let me have the nicest room in the flat—“nicest” meaning “comes with a personal bathroom”—as part of their own cost-cutting measures. For me, the arrangement entails paying a few more dollars for rent but I’m not complaining—at least I won’t have to walk all the way to the communal bathroom and tiptoe around the living room half-naked (especially considering my very low self-esteem when it comes to physical appearance).

Compared to my room in Manila, the flat where I’ll be living in for the next twelve months is a fucking dump. And, in an odd way, I like it. I actually remember being quite envious of my very good friend Chelot who lived in a dinky apartment on the verge of falling apart when she was in college. She used to spend hours inside her room—which she rarely cleaned—doing pointless activities such as wearing make-up, drawing self-portraits, doodling, emptying packs of Marlboro reds or writing unfinished fiction. At that time, her neighbors were Nursing students who constantly annoyed her with their loud giggling, especially when they were reviewing for exams. In retaliation, Chelot pounded on her old typewriter whenever it was her neighbors’ turn to sleep.

So far, I’ve made two important observations from my two days of living in this room. One, the previous tenant must have a bubbly personality—and it’s not only because he/she left traces of soapsuds in the bathroom sink. There’s a watercolor depiction of Hello Kitty in the bathroom door, and last night it took me half an hour to painstakingly peel under-the-sea-themed Disney stickers off the bathroom walls.

Observation number two: noise is incredible. For the past two days I’ve been hearing what sounds like heavy furniture being pushed across the flat upstairs at three in the morning. I also hear it when tenants living in the flat next to mine flush their toilet. Good lord!

Last night I walked to a nearby grocery to buy a bottle of Tiger Beer so I can toast to my shitty apartment. When I came back I couldn’t unlock the apartment door with my set of keys. A Muslim neighbor who lives at the other end of the hallway came by to help, telling me, “You need some lubrication [for the keyhole]” and handed me a bottle of oil.