I’ve had my fair share of roommates.
The fourth place I lived was a big, old apartment on the top floor of a building in the Bellas Artes neighborhood, right next to the wedge-shaped block where Monjitas and Merced streets merge. My room overlooked Parque Forestal, and every time I tried to take a nap, a roaming one-man band would start up below with drums and tambourines. I shared the place with five other people, mostly young foreigners like me—temporary expats working and living abroad for a while. The sole Chilean was Feña, an alleged student in his mid-20s who never attended a class or did any homework that I could see.