Sunday Reds

I know I haven't been good.

It mostly has to do with the absence of the internet in my hotel.  I could get a connection in my room, but then I would have to fork over the second home, a couple Harry Winstons and the private jet to be able to afford it.  Or I could go down to the hotel's business centre.  And by business centre I mean that one computer that sits in the hallway next to the lobby, the one with the funky Swiss German keyboard (not Qwerty, not Azerty, but Qwertz).

Which is where I'm sitting now, mostly out of guilt and because the cleaning lady is in my room.  Where I should be packing.  Where I want to be curled up in a ball crying.  But never mind.  Instead I'm here, talking to you.

I am so fed up.  Fed up with spending every night alone in a hotel room.  Fed up with scanning the same eight items on the room service menu wondering what I'm in the mood for (and after five weeks, the answer is 'nothing').  Fed up with having no one to talk to who's known me for ore than five minutes.  Fed up with the cold.  With the fog.  With my expanding waistline.  With those dozen extra wrinkles that have cropped up ahead of my 33rd birthday.  With not having anyone to go to the movies with.  With being single and friendless in a city where I don't understand the language or the culture or the obsession with brightly painted hard-boiled eggs.

The highlight of horridness: last night.  I receive a pity invite to a party from a friend of a friend whom I'd never met.  I'm a little nervous about it but desperate to talk to somebody, anybody, espsecially after a day spent surrounded by couples and babies at IKEA, trying to lift my body weight in flat packs.  So I get all dressed up.  Makeup on.  Take two trams across town in below-freezing temperatures.  Find the building.  Ring the buzzer.  Wait.  Ring again.  Third time's not a charm.  Neither is fourth.  After ten minutes, a lady walks into the building.  I try to explain that I'm attempting to go to a party but the buzzer isn't working.  She refuses to let me in.  I give it another five rings.  Nothing happens.  I take the two trams back home.  I spend Saturday night the same way I have spent all nights.  In my pajamas, with room service, watching TV.

Which I guess means things can only go up from here, right?

First stop, a new appartment.  Tomorrow.

Still no internet, though.