It’s not the cold, it’s the humidity.

She’d kept going down a long dark hall and turned left so he followed. It was a bedroom and she was closing the windows and pulling the curtains.

“You had the windows open?”

“It’s the only way to get the humidity out of the room.”

“It’s freezing in here.”

She pulled her sweater over her head. “I thought you were going to warm me up.”

 

My school provided apartment in Chile was the first floor of a building right next to a park with a large pond. There were a couple of swans on the pond which was pretty, but it seemed like every other week the bomberos (firefighters) were there fishing somebody out of the water. The station was only about a block away too, on the way to the nearest pandaria (bakery.) You see why I liked it there so much. Strolling over to the pandaria for amazing pastries and having the opportunity coming and going to ogle Chilian firefighters. All kinds of yummy.

Unfortunately, it was that humid. I had to open the windows every morning to let the humidity out and since I didn’t have a clothes dryer, laundry took two days. Forty-five minutes to wash and forty-seven hours to dry. If I got it up first thing in the morning when the sun was shining through the windows.

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