Apartment

We live just south of one of the main streets: Pelligrini. The building is nine stories high. The first night we arrived I climbed into the elevator alone with the bags and Becca, Arnaldo, and his daughter Lola took the stairs. The bottom floor is marked PB (Planta Baja) and Arnaldo hit the 3 before closing the collapsible gate and outside door for me. When it slowed down, I opened the gate. I found myself at eye level with the doorknob with about two and a half feet of brick on mortar wall beneath the bottom of the door. I hadn't quite made it to the third floor before I stopped the elevator. I lifted the four suitcases high enough to get them onto the tile floor as my friends came around the corner from the stairs.

Arnaldo unlocked the door to apartment 3A. He showed us the kitchen and fridge, which he had stocked with a few staples: bread, tuna, milk, apples, alphajors, and dulce de leche. He showed us how to work the water heater and the space heater by turning on the gas and lighting it with a lighter. The stove and oven work the same way. There was a bed we could pull out from under the couch and told us we'd have to decide who got to sleep in the actual bed. I noticed that the color palette of the apartment would match all the outfits I brought: black, white, and gray.

After he and Lola left, Becca and I divided the closet and drawers. She volunteered to take the couch-bed in the kitchen. I messaged a few people to let them know I arrived to Argentina safely and changed into my PJ's. After about 30 hours of traveling, it wasn't hard to fall asleep.