I’ve moved so many times in my life I’ve lost count. In the two and a half years I’ved lived in Spain, I can count nine times. I’ve seen my possessions balloon from two large suitcases to about four, and every move is a chance to cull possessions and reorganize stuff.

Since moving a week ago, I’ve slowly put my belongings into place, always observing convenience and a certain logic so that I can now where to retrieve them later. The less used stuff, such as my hiking shoes or my hammock, go into an inconvenient drawer under my bed. Day to day clothing goes into convenient drawers, divided by “office” or “sports”. There’s a general lack of surfaces to place things or storage spaces, but I’m trying to fit what I own into what have, and if something doesn’t fit, I might simply throw it away.

I noticed it will be difficult to store collared shirts if I have nowhere to hang them. I might just choose to store them in an inconvenient drawer and only iron them when I use them, on special occasions. Space is at such a premium that I’m feeling tempted to ask the owner to take away the flat screen TV, which is hanging from the wall.

Every single possession should have its place. Sometimes it’s difficult to know the place: do my flip-flops belong in the bathroom, or with my shoes? Do I put my personal documents in the dining room, or in the bedroom? Does this nice note my mother wrote for me belong with the documents? Those are the kind of questions I’m constantly asking.

Often times I use a divide and conquer strategy. Instead of succumbing to hopelessness by overwhelm, I chose a small space to organize. Take the kitchen counter. I identify was is not even supposed to be in the kitchen and I set it apart. Then I put what is dirty into the sink, what is clean into storage, then I will wipe off the surfaces, wash the dishes, wipe off more and call the section done.

From the week I’ve spent there, I know the only thing I will suffer is the lack of a real kitchen. I ought to buy a pan to at least be able to cook myself a steak, but these last days I’ve been coming back home to a dinner of cold cuts and whey protein drinks. I’m especially sick of the cold cuts, they are exceedingly salty and too savory to eat as is. These things are meant to be put in sandwiches, not to be eaten directly from the package.

What I like the most is the neighborhood. It’s a Jane Jacobs wet dream (squirt dream actually). The streets are filled with shops and people seem more friendly than in downtown. I’ve taken a look at google maps but the density is just too great to do it from a phone, you have to walk it to understand it.

There’s even a swingers’ bar and a “liberal sauna” nearby. Both have greatly intrigued me but I will not visit. I feel that if I like it, it will consume me; and if I don’t like it, I’ll feel dejected (like a kid observing kids playing but is not invited to play with them). I seem to be enticed by the polarities. The other day I spoke with the lady who said my practice was beautiful, she had disappeared during the summer and I was looking forward to see her again. We chatted and she was smiling wide and broad, and we were both placing our full attention on each other. Again, I don’t know if she’s married and kind or into me, but simply experiencing a woman around my age that I like lot gives me hope in the romantic area.