Sick of 23rd street

When I lived here before, I never had to find a place to live; it found me, before I even got here. This time around, I was at the mercy of the roommate market. Coming from New York, I expected it to be horrible and stressful (looking for a room in New York is even worse than dating in New York, which is terrible enough already), but the terrible Spanish economy was on my side here. Rooms that might otherwise be filled with youngish Catalans are empty because those people are unemployed and living with their parents. So there are lots of rooms. I started checking the Barcelona version of Craigslist a while before I got here, and the same places kept showing up for weeks. Anyway, I ended up deciding between two places, and today decided on the one that is in a less desirable location but is with native Spanish speakers. I came here to learn Spanish, not to form an unrequited crush on a cute tall Italian roommate. And in addition to daily Spanish practice, the place has a washing machine (everywhere here has a washing machine, but still it feels like a big huge deal to me) and an elevator. What luxury.