Weekly Housing

   While in Japan I lived for about a year and a half in what is known as ‘weekly housing’. As I never organized my own accommodation, I still do not know why it is so named. Perhaps the contract renews on a weekly basis, or you only have to give a week’s notice if you are leaving.

   At any rate, weekly housing has a bad rap. When I told my students at Tokyo City University that I was staying in such a joint, I was met with knowing looks. Can you hear your neighbours? they asked.  

   On March 15, 2011 I was living in weekly housing in Fuji city, feeling very much on edge following the massive earthquake which had struck four days earlier. Suddenly, at about half past ten at night, there was a violent paroxysm of shaking. A quake had struck Fujinomiya, just a few miles to the north. My wife and I bolted downstairs into the darkness.

   The power cables at the end of the car park were swinging from side to side. The few cars, mine included, were rocking like drunks. My left leg practically seized up from the surge of adrenaline that shot through my body.

   Fearing another tremor, we were reluctant to return to our weekly housing, so we stayed in the darkness for about half an hour. A hundred metres away I could see the shadowy bulk of the shinkansen line. No trains passed, the earthquake having triggered an automatic shutdown. It was dead silent and, curiously, most of our fellow residents were nowhere to be seen. Our minds turned to urgent questions: should we load up the car, would our flights leave as scheduled, would there be another tsunami? Eventually we climbed the steps and went indoors.

   Passing beyond the sham wooden door that opened into the living area, the first thing I noticed was the TV. There was another sound in the background, though.  Curious, I hit the mute button. The unmistakable noise was coming from the flat next door. My neighbour was snoring! In true Japanese style, he was utterly exhausted, so much so that he had slept through a terrifying earthquake.  

           

A city in Spain

The marble streets of the Old Town glisten with the yellow lights of the evening, and beautifully dressed women walk past languidly. Sitting outside on a wooden stool, a sherry barrel serving as my dinner table, I dine on fried chorizo and fish. The bar is especially popular with Dutch tourists, for some reason. A drunk beggar missing most of his front teeth appears and begins a mournful ditty. His voice is grating and he stomps and claps, before touring the tables in search of money.

          After I finish my dinner, I wander the streets. Bored waiters amble back and forth outside restaurants, most of which are deserted after 10 o’clock. The illuminated cathedral looks breathtaking, its sole tower seeming to point to the stars and moon. I pass signs of the economic crisis, like the four homeless guys crashed out inside an ATM vestibule on the main drag. On my way back to my hotel, I walk along the pavement above the bone-dry river, which looks dreadful. Four dim figures in hoods sit on the concrete bed, huddled round an invisible game, a small collection of bottles in the vicinity.

          That was Málaga a few years ago. I wonder how long it will be before I have the chance to go back.