I Am Mistaken for Patrick Swayze

I am begining to like Sacha, our real estate broker. He collects our rent for the local landlord, who never shows his face. If you see it, he has to kill.

But Sacha came over last night during dinner to give us some dance pointers ("Do not go to that club. It has the, come si dice...gangsters") and take our down payment, and ended up staying a while. Through the conversation, we had this exchange:

"You are, uh...Californian, typical americano. You like [makes surfing motions]..."

"A surfer?"

"No, like the, uh, Point Broken, no?"

"Point Break?"

"Si! Patrick Swayze!"

He also compared me to Michael Knight.

An update: Wheels and the Wheelies have found a place, and are moving in this weekend. It's near the Spanish Steps, which means it probably isn't cheap, but it's better than living in cardboard boxes.

Which wasn't what they were doing. I just think it's better than that certain situation.

Three's Company, But Four Is Just Unhealthy Overcrowding

As you might have heard (because news about me travels fast), I'm taking this semester off to live with three girls. At first I thought I would pretend I was gay, and then we could be best friends with no sort of tension, and I could have an excuse for dressing nice all the time. But I decided to go a straighter route, and my roommates have be very courteous. I've lived in a bubble all my life: a nice, septic, beautiful bubble that kept me very conservative, so this arrangement is far outside my comfort zone. But I have been given my own room and bathroom, and in exchange I do the dishes and am in charge of the directions. It's much better than being gay. I suppose.

Before I commited to live with Ashley, Ellen, and Rachael, I thought about living with a group spearheaded by Keith Wheeler, aka Wheels. I saw Wheels at orientation yesterday, and he told me a horror story. Apparently, after they signed their housing contract and paid two months in advance, their apartment went back up for rent. When they tried to contact their broker, they found that he had changed his cell phone and left Rome. Now Wheels and the Wheelies are out two thousand plus euros and are without a place to stay. The hidden fees I find myself paying to our own broker, "You Liking the Disco" Sacha, seem a bit trivial in comparison.