Not that I want to spoil the image you might have had of what my room looks like, but I feel like it’s time to write about the place that I spend 80% of my time in: my bedroom. Apologies in advance if this is dripping with description, much like the burger that I had for 2nd dinner just before coming home was dripping over the sides with mayo and ketchup onto the wax paper. You get the idea of where this is going..
You walk up the wooden steps, creaking as always, and then make your way down the narrow hall, under the glass roof and over the glass floor. Looking up, its always either sunny and hot or rainy and cold, yet the glass roof always has a film of dirt on it. When it rains really hard water actually falls through, forcing me to retreat into my room where I can wait for the eventual leak to form by the door. Walking over the glass floor for the first time freaks you out a bit, especially noticing the cracks, but I haven’t fallen through yet and the leaning tower of Pisa is still kicking it.
Down the hall, just before the dining room on the right you find your way into my room. The heavy wooden door that you push open slowly falls back, and unless you grab it and gently ease it into the dresser it will make a loud thud, sending shock waves across the apartment. And there she is in all her glory. My dimly lit, windowless room. A quick glance on the right shows the desk with the green felt cover, secured tightly by push pins on the edges which always dig marks into my arms as I sit there typing or lesson planning. The felt makes it nearly impossible to write without putting holes in the paper, lest I have something sturdy underneath.
The table, which sits against a door that would connect to the next room, bears a big weight. Loaded on the right side with my camera bag and wood basket that I got as a gift, it balances out with the left side which hosts my books, binders, and ever growing stack of DVDs. Everything from season 2 of the “Simpsons” to “The Bourne Ultimatum” is loaded up in the top left corner. And moving in on the back of the table are sunglasses, a flash drive, some change, an empty indigenous-designed tequila flask and shot glass, also gifts hug the wall. A small note pad for notes or bookmarks, cash and my ID cards sit to the right, moving around the most of all. On their flank you’d find headphones for Skype and a couple of zip lock bags of small change for my class photocopies, and that’s all she wrote.
In the middle of the room you now find the queen size bed, the blankets and sheets falling off. The wooden boards under the bed buckle and bend, giving a crater effect which can’t be good for my back. The pillows are probably propped up against the headboard since I was last reading or watching movies in bed. The left and right of the bed are flanked by two small tables which house glasses, books, DVDs in the queue, a watch, keys, water bottle, a Swiss Army knife, a table lamp which is never used, a travel alarm clock, “The First 49 Short Stories”, by Ernest Hemingway, and Tums.
But back in the lower left corner of the room where the heavy wooden door now rests is the dresser, where two pairs of pants rest on the doors. Loaded up with clothes and small plastic bags, an assortment of emergency supplies and other toiletries, it gets the job done. On the other side of the room is a pink rack which hosts more books and two hats. Underneath is the dirty laundry sack, and next to that are the shoes. In the upper right corner rests my backpack, the other suitcase forgotten under the bed.
Along the white walls are pictures of Spain that I cut out of a National Geographic calendar. There are also smaller pictures of Quito from a tourist map. After two days with the white walls, I couldn’t take it and had to put something up. At least it’s something to look at when my eyes start hurting. At first I couldn’t read in the room, but in January the light bulb was changed, and now I can get by. Yet without windows, I can’t see life going by or get fresh air, which cuts me off in many ways. Creatively and healthily.
Upper left corner leads into the bathroom, and since a toilet against the wall, a sink and a shower are nothing uncommon, it’s not really worth the extra words. I will say, however, that the door to the bathroom, which doesn’t actually close and has a window in the middle of it, makes it so that there’s no separation of the two rooms. You can imagine what this means for the wonderful scents from time to time.
The ceiling in this room, far too high for its own good, is checkered in an odd pattern with water stains and cracks. The floor, wooden and always creaking, with its nails jutting out, can easily ruin a sock or two.
That’s all there is to it really, but this is my home, and unfortunately I spend too much time in this room. As depressing as it gets sometimes and as suffocating as it can feel on certain lonely nights, it’s always nice to come back after a few days away. It is, after all, my room. I’m sure someday I’ll look on it with at least a speck of romanticism, and be proud of myself that I could make it through here for so long. But seriously, I can’t wait to get the hell out of this room. I mean, come on, no windows?