Of the five or six qualifications for any building to be considered a house, my stall has about four of them. It makes the cut in the bedroom department ;)- meaning it has one- it also has a bathroom. And that's where it stops being a house. My stall, in a long row of stalls just like it, lacks a kitchen, furniture, and a real door. It's probably a better venue for selling pineapple than living in, but I like it.
I have an English-speaking neighbor. I live between two restaurants, competing for my loyalty with free sticky rice and wine coolers. Painfully slow wi-fi is included. My morning commute is down to 6 minutes.There's plenty of space to do yoga, if I ever decide that's something I want to do. My toilet is of the western variety. And one day soon I'll buy a stove so I can make tacos.
Home sweet strip mall.
I have an exercise DVD I'll send your way once I'm done with it, so that you can have your own English-speaking personal trainer in your new strip mall
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