Entering my building I’m confronted with a young woman absorbed in her smartphone. I’m drenched head to toe, having ridden my bicycle through a torrential downpour en route from my studio. The young woman doesn’t appear have the key to the front entry, and I assume she’s looking up information about which buzzer to ring. I nod to her, unlock the door and hold it open for her to go ahead of me (an ungainly operation with the bicycle, even under normal circumstances). We both approach the elevator, somewhat awkwardly, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about how wet my clothes are. I loathe moments such as these, and I can’t help recalling my original impulse to rent an apartment on the ground floor, precisely to avoid these kinds of protracted, loaded silences. With the older residents of the building small talk comes naturally, and in their presence an easygoing, convivial atmosphere reigns in the lobby and elevator. With the younger generation though, the smartphone removes the obligation to interact, and one is confronted with an aloof, defensive body language. Sure enough, as the elevator begins its ascent, the young woman continues to be absorbed in her phone – and in fact this comes as somewhat of a relief, since I’ve realized that it would be impossible to converse without discussing my soaked condition, which is in any case fairly embarrassing. The elevator arrives at my floor and the young woman exits ahead of me. Still checking her phone, she wanders down the hallway in the same direction I’m going. She stops precisely in front of my door and rings the doorbell. The young woman has apparently come to visit K, my roommate: they are going to bake a Tiramisu cake together! After an awkward introduction I rush off to deal with my soaked clothing as they settle into the kitchen to bake their cake.