Okay, this isn’t really relevant to my whole travel adventure, but I picked up a pair of Sennheiser headphones (honestly, they’re earbuds) in Dublin that were, by my usual standards, outrageously priced, especially since I was paying in Euros. However, I have to say as I sit here in my apartment that’s on the first floor, right on noisy little street, that not only is the sound quality light years above and beyond anything I’ve experienced in portable audio before, but it is blocking out everything but “Enjoy the Silence” right now, and my iTunes volume is only about a third of the way up.
Oh, the pleasure.
Anyway, today was a day of lesson learning. I was already a crankypants because I slept too little yesterday.
As was implied in my last post’s subject, I went to the beach yesterday, which wiped me out entirely, as it tends to do. I should take this opportunity to mention that it’s agreed upon in both my guidebooks and by everyone I’ve talked to here so far, while the beach I was at yesterday is one of the better ones in the city, none of the city beaches compare with the ones that are about an hour out. (The guy who handled the exchange of funds for the apartment , who’s a really sweet Italian guy called Junior, gave me a map, and at my request, circled places I should go, tourist traps I should avoid, and wrote the names of places off the map that I should go see).
I should also say that despite this consensus, for someone who’s spent the majority of her beach experiences at the Jersey shore, it was still a massive improvement. The Mediterranean is beautiful and warm and the perfect color entirely. Walking up to it felt like wonder and home at the same time, because though I’ve seen it before, by this point in my life, I figured my impression of its loveliness must have been embellished by nostalgia and the fuzziness of a memory so far faded. And maybe, even just yesterday, even now, the near-overwhelming feeling it inspired is skewing my perception.
It’s not an exact thing, this feeling; there was some inexplicable feeling of rightness in it for me, some feeling that this was what water meeting earth is supposed to look like, feel like. There are too many facts in my head about this sea for me to let myself believe that there is some ineffable and transcendent connection between me and it. Surely my understanding of the as the sea from which I am descended, on both sides of my family , is a recognition of the mind that has wended its way through my body. It must be that knowing that this sea was once a desert, and that every part of my known heritage leads back to it, that made me feel quieter, more humbled, and somehow perfectly placed in its presence than perhaps I ever have before. (The Spanish ancestry of my Cuban grandfather leads back here – his family were Catalán, from Barcelona. And certainly, the fact that no less than three people have asked me for directions since I arrived here only reinforces this strange sense.)
I did not come here for this; I did not expect this.
In any case, yesterday was a day of enjoyment and reflection, of warming myself in the sun and moving with the waves.
But like I said, that wears a girl out; so I took a nap when I got back to the hotel.
A nap that went way long.
So, long story slightly less long, ended up staying awake until five AM, then waking up at eight to pack up all my stuff, shower, etc.
I’d met with Begoña, my landlady, yesterday, and she was extraordinarily sweet, welcoming, and apologetic about the problem with the apartment. She explained that the last tenant had suffered a heatstroke, and that was why the apartment hadn’t been available – the doctor had told him he should delay traveling a few days. I would have felt more than a twinge of guilt for my behavior in light of this knowledge, but I still don’t quite understand why I hadn’t been told this from the beginning. In any case, she gave me the key, welcoming to come stay at the apartment as soon as I liked. I’d opted to stay at my hotel specifically because I’d been told the beaches in that part of town – at Poble Nou – were better than the ones near where I’m staying, at La Barceloneta.
So okay. I got to the apartment a bit earlier than noon – the time I’d set up with Begoña – to meet with the Check-In Manager, Ahmed, to pay for the room, set up the internet, and do whatever else needed doing.
The first issue was that the air conditioner isn’t working.
This was not a great tragedy, as the high today was 77 degrees. It got quite warm in the apartment as I unpacked (and took pictures! To follow when plausible), but I figured Ahmed would fix it when he arrived (with my USB modem).
The second issue was that Junior arrived instead of Ahmed.
Maybe people are more trusting in Spain; it’s obviously more laid back here than the States in most ways I’ve been able to perceive. But clearly, when a different man than I’d been told to expect arrived without me having heard from Begoña about it, I was immediately on guard.
But Junior had the exact same paper Begoña and I had looked over together, with her writing still on it where she’d adjusted the price to compensate for the four days I hadn’t been in the apartment. So I let him in and told him about the air conditioner, which he promptly tried to fix, but couldn’t. There were phone calls; there was lament; there was the promise that his boss would come to look at it later in the afternoon. Also, Ahmed hadn’t told him that I’d needed internet, and so he hadn’t come with the USB modem Begoña had assured me I’d have, though he promised to return on Monday. In good faith, and because he promised me, despite my reticence, I gave him my credit card and paid the remainder of the balance on the apartment, as well as the deposit. We ended up talking for a long while about America, Italy (where he’s from), what he’s doing in Barcelona, what I’m doing in Barcelona, the problem with the ways universities work, and politics. It was a great conversation, and put us both at our ease, I think. He went on to circle locations of interest on my map, to warn me about pickpockets and where they’re most often found, and to tell me I had less to worry about than a German or a Swede, because I look like I’m from here.
So, as he advised, while I’d waited for him to call and let me know his boss was coming over, I went out into my neighborhood to pick up some things for the house (they totally don’t refrigerate eggs or milk here! BANANAS. Also, Kinder Joy is just that – a joy!). He was supposed to have called at 4:30, and meet his boss here at 5:00 (which I’d already taken to mean 5:30 based on my experience with Spanish timekeeping thus far – HA!).
When I got back at twenty after six, though, the air conditioner still wasn’t working, and no one had called me.
So I called Junior, and raised – well, maybe not hell, but purgatory, maybe. I was maybe kind of a bitch – certainly unyielding and not the pleasant conversationalist I’d been earlier in the day. He was extremely (and I think sincerely) apologetic, and told me his boss was coming with fans; he explained that everything in Spain is closed on Sunday, and so truly, there wasn’t anything they could do until Monday. Still upset, I called Begoña and informed her of the situation, and she reassured me of the same. Junior’s boss, Rafael, came shortly thereafter with two fans in tow, as well as an explanation and a USB modem (!).
Okay, so that’s cool. The modem had a disc for setup, and I was so eagerly excited for my internet connection, I failed to remember that my netbook doesn’t have a CD drive. By the time I realize this, Rafael was gone, and my pre-paid cell had run out of minutes. Shit.
So I’m trying to get in touch with Vodafone, my cell provider, and the automated system I’m trying to buy more minutes from isn’t understanding me, or won’t take my card, or something. After four attempts (one of which with a very impatient dick who obviously had no interest in helping someone who was not Spanish, and probably American, and hung up on me), I finally got to talk to someone who could help me, only to discover that they can’t accept my debit card because of some American legal issue with what people are allowed to use debit cards for. So what I have to do, apparently, is go to a Vodafone store, or recharge my card at a cajero (which I think may be an ATM, but damned if I know). Anyway, by this point, I was exhausted, so I’d just given myself over to dealing with it tomorrow (today). If I find a cajero today where I can recharge my card, great. If not, it’s fine – a communications blackout till Monday won’t kill me, and it’s not like I can’t write during this time (clearly – HA!).
[As it happened, didn't get connected till today - and only 3G, not wifi! Sadface! I will try to work out my wifi situation - but tomorrow. LOL)
What’s good about this, though, is that I’m thinking less and less that this is about deception or getting over, and simply a cultural hiccup. Back home, when shit goes wrong, we’re taught to expect it to be taken care of now – right now, twenty minutes ago, now. In Spain , the pace is simply more leisurely, less urgent. This is really cool when it comes to chilling out and enjoying oneself – it can be pretty distressing when plans go unexpectedly awry. But once everything was done, and I’d settled in for an early night (I am more and more rejecting this idea of “you’ll sleep when you’re dead” – I’m on vacation, and my capacity for enjoyment is exponentially greater when I’m well-rested), advice a Spanish-Portugay friend gave me came to mind – to just go with the flow. What that meant didn’t crystallize until I’d just given over to my situation, put away the modem to stop trying to make it work, put away my phone so its lack of functionality would stop tormenting me, and just read some things on my netbook and my magazines.
I’d really like to get my phone working again this morning, since I’ve made plans with a friend of said Portugay’s for this evening – but if it doesn’t happen, I’m not going to die.
As an aside, I totally just saw the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen scurry across the floor of my bedroom. I can only assume that this is as much how things go in Barcelona as it is in New Yawk. LOLOL Man, that is the one thing I hate about city living!
[In cockroach news, I haven't seen another of the damn things yet - though I'm being extra careful now with dishes, crumbs, moisture, and other roach-bait. Oh roach!)
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