After far too many e-mails, false starts and misunderstandings, at around 9pm on Monday, I finally took possession of my new apartment. A few blocks north of the last one; a few thousand miles better. I've harked on about the annoyances of the last place, but it was more than that. It didn't feel like a home -maybe because it was the scene of those first, long, dark hours of my time in Buenos Aires, and it couldn't shake off the stains.
The new place is home. It's on a bustling and lively little street. The bed is comfortable, there's plenty of space, a kitchen, a balcony and a pool on the roof. Walking to the tube (I really must start calling it the subte to stop Americans looking at me blankly, though they probably still will) I experienced a peculiar sensation. Suddenly, I feel comfortable, like I belong here (though obviously not a porteño just yet).
When I was in Melbourne for a spell last year, I felt inspired to photograph things wherever I went. Back in London, I resolved to do the same. I took a photo walk around town one sunny June day, and came back with three pictures. Nothing caught my eye; or rather my eye caught nothing. A place has to interest and excite you before you see those things. You have to breathe in time with it, or else they escape. Last week, I was quietly scouting, thinking how and where and why I would take photos. I didn't come up with much.
This week, I am seeing, thinking and understanding and feel inspired. Alive again, and excited, walking in step, the city has blossomed right before my eyes.