Every time I open the door, I’m drawn to pictures of someone else’s life. An AirBnB, they’re everywhere in the apartment: friends posing, drinking, celebrating, mostly all young attractive girls. Oddly, none of the pictures are of the boyfriend who let me into the flat. All of the pictures are hung high on the walls so that they hit me almost exactly at eye level. There are so many, I have to start taking them down so that I don’t become depressed by comparison. It’s the same reason I rarely go on Facebook. It’s an idealized life, and one that can’t be reconciled with my current situation.
Other than the pictures, the flat is a mostly pleasant. Everything is white and cream colored (an odd choice for a place that is shared with strangers), the bed is large and comfortable, and it’s small enough that the heater can keep it warm. The Internet is temperamental, but that seems to be the case wherever I go in Munsterland. The coffee shops don’t have it, the other apartments drop it, and whenever it does work, it interrupts itself with spikes and crashes. Even with these flaws, being in the city of Muster is better than being the countryside. This is already a lonely country, the last thing I need is to be surrounded by cows and cut off from what little human interaction exists.
Originally published at American Love Affair.