I took a taxi from the train station to my apartment for a few reasons. First off, I didn’t really know where it was. Second, it was a little too far to walk. Thirdly, I was incredibly nervous, and somehow taking a taxi made that better (apparently I had forgotten that I would have to count euros to pay). It didn’t take long to get there, and I got a bit of a tour of the town. I got the keys to my apartment and headed over, hoping against hope that no one was there. I knew I was splitting the apartment with two other people, who I knew nothing about, and I also knew I was on people overload for the day. Thus, with stealth and a big wheely suitcase, I entered the stairwell, then my front door, then….
Then I got stuck trying to unlock the door to my little suite. Seriously, the lock revolves like a hundred times before you finally hit the revolution that actually unlocks the lock.
The room is a fairly standard, four walls and a window. It’s not that big, but it is nice. There are shelves, which I like (if it weren’t for the lack of them being filled with books), a long desk, wardrobe, and, of course, a bed. I have my own bathroom, which is nice, since it means I can leave all my morning/getting ready/night-night crap sprawled out in it, in an order that only I can understand. I like not sharing bathrooms.
I started unpacking, but only slightly. I’m going to move in another few weeks, so I might as well save myself some of the effort. I had barely unzipped my suitcase when the phone rang, which I ignored–until one of my yet unmet apartment mates answered it and knocked on my door, informing me that it was for me (wheee). Turns out the office had accidentally double charged me for my stay, and I needed to come back to reception to get my refund. I did so, and returned to finish unpacking.
It’s nice to have a lot of empty shelf space, but having all that space makes my paltry three books and a Bible look rather, well, like a skinny baby elephant all alone in the depths of Africa at the height of summer. As I finished putting everything away, I came across a little rubber duck Mary Lou had given me at the end of last spring. At SIS, my school within the university, we have a thing about ducks–we even have Duck Discussion Days, to which I always attempted to wear my “Not Playing With A Full Duck” shirt. Basically, the theory is, no matter how many classes you have about specific parts of the duck, it is no use to you if you don’t know how the duck fits together and works in the real world. So, we have ducks. Mary Lou gave me a rubber ducky with the world on it before I left, with a nice orange ribbon tied around its neck. It is, really, the only decorative thing I brought, so I went ahead and put it on my window sill so I can see it each time I walk into my room–my ducky from home.
I just realized it doesn’t have a name. I might name it Sven, since that is my default name for animals I find but can’t keep, but then again, I might just let it be Ducky. My little ducky on the window sill.