The lift in my building is broken. My apartment manager Sylvia said it would be repaired shortly after I arrived, but the workmen just showed up two weeks ago: working class guys in stained boots and white t-shirts, often taking their first smoke break as I leave for work in the morning.
As they drill and hammer in the elevator shaft, the sound of their music echoes up the stairwell into my apartment. Instead of rock or hip hop, they play classical Italian and Spanish music with dramatic instrumentals and powerful female vocals. The ambiance is near perfect.
It's striking, the way masculinity is so different here.