Friday, March 13/2009

Haircut before leaving, with only minimal trauma - shorter than I want, but a good cut. A solid hour's wait, but I've brought a novel. Minimalist conversation with the girl who washes hair, consisting mainly of each of us repeating what we have to say twice and hoping this will result in understanding - which it doesn't always.

Three a.m. drama. We wake to hear the fire alaarm ringing at length, and decide clothes are required lest the emergency be real. There are voices in the hallway and, when I open the door, a nasty smell of smoke. We join the small cluster of residents outside the door of the flat next door, clearly the source of the smoke. Only one other woman, but men have a clear advantage at impromptu middle of the night gatherings, being free to appear in sweat pants and not much else. The occupant of the flat is a giant mountain of a man, padding about unhappily in underpants, t-shirt and socks. He has something to be unhappy about, as he's clearly the author of the burning, whatever it is, and is being subjected to flat inspection by a man in black whom we take to be the night manager, as well as the singing Swede of lobby fame, recruited in this case for his linguistic skills. Though the man mountain doesn't seem chatty. Night manager and singing Swede emerge, apparently satisfied and commenting that it may have been cooking. Back in bed we reflect that it's no particular comfort to be given an explanation that cannot possibly be accurate. The nasty, acrid smell could have been cigarette and bedding but it was definitely not burned toast and bore no real resemblance to burnt food. But the rest of the night is peaceful.