This Must be the Place — Finding a Room in a Foreign City

An essay about places: sharing them, leaving them, finding them

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Until recently, I lived on a road in Barcelona whose name roughly translates to “Kill Street.” The street was quiet and familiar, but it was nice to imagine that we were all secretly assassins hiding in plain sight.

When I moved into the apartment, cables hung from the living room ceiling (“an art installation”), fruit crates were stapled to the wall (“they make good shelves’’), and the toilet was outside (“you get used to it”). These quirks were compensated for by the size of the rented room, as well as the person who was sub-letting it. He was British, so we had a country and culture in common. We were going to be friends!

I now recognise this thought for what it was. A delusion.

Spanish speakers sometimes say “compartir es vivir” or “sharing is living”, a soundbite of their open approach to life. My flatmate had never warmed to that notion so the most we shared — and lived — over the course of my two-year tenancy were the kitchen utensils, a bout of Covid-19 I brought home from the gym, and dozens of jump scares.

“AHH!” he would shout after I’d said hello, aware that he hadn’t heard me enter any one of the communal areas. “AHH!” I’d…