Thursday, I was back in the apartment ruminating self-doubt when Adriano showed up with a flat of beer. Both a model, and scientist, his experiments at the neurological institute were going well so he had come by to celebrate.

Pietro had also come by to do the rounds. I told him about the "scarafaggii" living in the apartment. He said no problem, "domani, domani" and made an action indicating fumigation. From experience, tomorrow means next week. Though I expect his actions , when he gets to them, will do more to increase the toxicity of our air, food, and cooking surfaces than it will decrease our cockroach population.

For every day I spend in Milan, I shave two off my lifespan.

My phone ceased to function earlier in the day, so I did not know if Pierre still wanted to go out tonight or if I would be finding another way to entertain myself. I borrowed Adriano's phone to send a text message.

Pietro waited for the dishwasher to finish. He treats us like animals and I think most of his tenants respond in kind. Believing us incapable of running the dishwasher ourselves, he runs it when he comes by.

I thin he is a little frustrated when he finds the counter tops clean and the dishes already loaded. He has never seen me put the dishes away, but he knows it is me. Upsetting the status quo.

He empties the dishes, probably failing to notice the separation of bowls and plates on the shelf, and stacks them randomly in the order they came out of the machine. He takes out the cutlery basket and opens the cutlery drawer. This time it is impossible to miss the presence of the organized cutlery tray, discovered in an unused drawer and retrieved from its neglect.

Pietro cannot just empty the basket upside down into the drawer as before. Still, he cannot accept this suggestion of civility. Defiantly he places the cutlery in no particular order or orientation on top of the neatly partitioned knives, spoons, and forks.

Pierre replies to Adriano's mobile phone and says he is too tired to go out tonight. I resign myself to spending the night in our kitchen-turned-bar. Cigarettes, marijuana, hot knives. All consumed second hand by me.

I mention my despair to Adriano who recounts a vivid tail. A tribulation much greater than mine as he struggled in LA. Out of money and no job, he had two options. Go back to Brazil, home, safe, or try to make it in LA. He found two part time jobs, a host at restaurant and a clerk at a fast food place. He made enough money to cover his rent and by the end of the month a client took him for a campaign.

It does not matter what the client says at the casting. Sometimes they just look at a couple photos in your book and say "thanks" and you get booked for the job. A common story among models. You just go to the castings, try to enjoy your time, and have faith and patience.

Natalia, another Brazilian, joined our party. Maiko and Caue talked in Portuguese. Adriano's story cheered me up and though I was discouraged by my success rate and accommodations, I felt how great it was to have this opportunity and meet such interesting people.

Earlier I had cooked curried cabbage and mince. Caue, hungry, contemplated getting a kebab, so I offered him some food. I put the cabbage on to heat and started cooking some rice. Impatient, Caue insisted on eating with bread instead of waiting for rice, not understanding that by now it was not easier to ignore the rice, but inconvenient and impolite. I acquiesced.

Soon Maiko, Adriano, and Caue all but polished of the meal I thought would last me half the week. Still, it is nice to share, see the expressions of enjoyment and receive the accolades in broken English. "Very ... gourmet! Good cook. Very good roommate."

Maiko and Caue invited me along to Hollywood. I went there last week and it was terrible. Commercial music, drunk models and drugged groupies. More people in the VIP pen than commoners. At Hollywood, I could ride in free on my special status, but once inside I was still a commoner.

They go out around one or two in the morning. A lot of people consider that the time to go out in Milan, but I still think midnight to one are peak hours.

It was the same as last time. A thick film of syrup from spilled drinks glues broken glass to the soles of your shoes. All my companions are Brazilian models. Bigger, stronger, better looking and way more aggressive than me, I get little chance to interact with the few girls in the club.

Not that the girls there are of much interest anyway.

Why any of the non-models waste their time there, I do not know. Unless they have money. A couple of pretty, young girls, cling to older men with bad haircuts, t-shirts, and clumsy running shoes.

The night dragged on. At least the music was better than before. At least I could dance and be around people.

I glanced at Maiko and Caue every so often waiting for them to be ready to leave. I glanced over and did not see them. I looked around assuming they had gone for food or cigarettes. Later, I looked outside to see if they were outside waiting. Still later, I asked around the other Brazilians. Maybe they had left.

After another half hour I gave up. I left the club with one of the other Brazilians. I tried to get something useful out of him. Maybe if we were going in the same direction, we could share a cab. He was not only drunk, but going the opposite way.

We chatted with two girls through the open window of their car. One was Italian, the other from Miami. We claimed to be students. I just played along. Poorly. I smiled in amusement and the girl kept asking "It's not true is it? You're models right?" I did not even know which school we went to.

I went down to the subway and and asked the man unlocking the gates in a couple of Italian words and gestures when the trains start. Six. It was five and I was tired and frustrated.

My map was at home. Going out with my "friends", I felt I would not be needing it. I also forgot my transit pass.

I went back up to street level. My companion's tram, the first of the day, would be there at 5:30. I did not know which tram to take, but saw that his followed the circle route and would eventually get me closer to my place, or perhaps connect to a bus that would. I decided to take his tram. I continued studying the map at the stop.

Just as its straining metal wheels announced its arrival, I found a better tram, the number 30 would take me in the right direction. I ran across the street and hopped on without time to find out where to disembark.

Hazy memories and abstract sense of direction kept me on board as long as possible. I got off and kept walking in the same direction. When I finally found another map, I discovered I exited three stops prematurely.

I walked, and walked. Finally I reached the stop to which I should have let the tram take me. I did not expect to see the connecting bus, so I walked the second leg. The streets waking. A lady spoke with cats. Odd hours attract odd people.

In range of the apartment I ran. I felt like hitting something. Running was the least destructive way to release tension.

When I arrived to find my roommates at home and awake, anger and betrayal overtook fatigue and anxiety. Maiko, the ubermale, was on the floor of his room with yet another girl. I found Caue in the kitchen. Demanding to know why they left me and all he could muster was "sorry".

I set my alarm for ten. I slept until twelve. Worried my agency may be angry having been trying to reach me, I showered quickly, got dressed, and ran down the street to the nearest phone center.

The agency was angry. I apologized about my phone not working. "You don't call in at one o'clock if your phone's not working." I promised it would not happen again and explained the situation from the night before.

I had called just in time. I had a call back with Yves Saint Laurent at 2:30.

The pants were too tight.

Feeling discouraged about my whole situation, I plodded off to Vodafone to get my phone fixed. I was anxious to contact my friend to confirm the details of our trip to Venice this weekend. The silver lining to an overcast week. Speculating, perhaps wishing my phone was simply out of credit, I paid to have my account refilled.

The phone still did not work.

The store agent turned the phone off, inspected the SIM card, and turned it back on. It worked. A simple restart could have solved my problem all along.

As my phone was recalled to life, the text messages, adrift in the ether, found a home in my inbox. One was from Pierre confirming not the details, but rather the demise of my weekend plans. His friend, uncomfortable about me staying with him not having yet met me, rescinded my invitation.

Dragging feet, my empty soul wandered into the stale Milanese afternoon.