Definitely Slavic

I open the door of my apartment and stand on the 8th floor landing of an eight-storey building. The light is off. I wave my right arm to warn the mysterious device that sets the light on hidden in the volume that surrounds me that I am here. It takes it a while to pay me any attention. And there I am all along, moving my right arm. On my left hand I carry a cardboard box stuffed with paper and smaller cardboard boxes. I'm the recycling type. I call the lift and as I wait I look at the wall on my right. The stain of dampness that started a couple of months ago is in a fairly good shape and growing at a steady pace. I estimate it will reach the ceiling before Christmas Day. I make a mental note to email the building administrator once again. I make a second mental note to ignore the likely further demonstrations of uselessness his reply will amount to. Presently the lift arrives and down I go. In the street I approach a paper container to drop the cardboard box I'm carrying. Meanwhile, a few little cardboard boxes have fallen to the ground and I go through the process of collecting them. I hear a couple of women walking in the street. They talk in Russian, or something which sounds utterly like Russian. Definitely Slavic, mind you. I can't fail to notice that the young one has a perfect body and after we pass I turn around to admire her lowest half. That makes me feel only a little ashamed. I walk towards my destination. Shortly after I pass another beauty, a fact that, to my surprise, makes me go through another little episode of subdued shame. I am about to cross the street at a zebra-crossing and, as any other day, I am also about to be run over by a car. In the very last second I am the one that stops. In the bar at the corner the barstool intellectuals discuss about the technical correctness of substituting a forward by a midfield. They provide pros and cons yet they don't seem to agree. In the next zebra-crossing I experience an acute sense of déjà-vu. Further on the street is suddenly blocked by three women in their fifties and a couple of large turds. They talk a little too loud, seemingly unaware that they are forcing me to step over the turds. They are smelly - the turds - a signal of their recent deposition. The women don't seem to care. I reach my destination, a Chinese corner shop. I am looking for a couple of rolls of cellophane paper to wrap ten photographs and a few paintings on paper. Those will be on display on the ground floor of a building somewhere in Maó. The rolls are cheap, 60 cents each. The young male Chinese speaks funny and I have to make a little effort to conceal my laughter. I decide it's not worth the effort and I laugh quite openly. He laughs with me. Another Chinese a few meters away is quite silently looking at us. I pay, wave him goodbye, and start my walk back home. And then I go through similar mundane situations.