Culture Clash: My Fellow Americans, You Are Assholes. Kind Spaniards, Stop Lying and Get Yo Shit Together.

I seriously cannot fathom how this culture managed to conquer like, a quarter to a third of the landmass on this planet with this mode of operations. I'm pretty laid back; if something's not going to happen in the time frame I'd hoped, I can work it out and deal with it. But for the love of Christ, don't tell me it's going to happen in ten minutes if it's not going to happen for four hours. Perfect example of the Spanish/American culture clash; on the way back from the Dali Museum yesterday, a tire on the bus that brought us all there blew out. I don't know about everybody else on that bus, but I had a pretty good idea that it was going to be more than a minute before they could handle the situation. But what does a good Spanish tour guide do? He tells everybody we'll be back on the road in half an hour.

Oh, nelly.

Obviously, this is not what happened. We were seriously ten kilometers (I don't know, roughly five miles, maybe? I dunno) out of Barcelona. We broke down in front of a sign that said so. But sometimes shit takes longer than we want it to, obviously, and the Spanish inclination seems to always be to give the best case scenario (or I think, in many cases, "when in doubt, bullshit!"). But half an hour came and went; then an hour came and went.

Now this is one of those moments when my American brethren exhibited the reason the rest of the world thinks we're such assholes. (No, it's not just because of Bush - Bush was just the epitome of everything that the rest of the world thinks is wrong with America, and Americans.) It's because we go out into other countries, and act like we have no fucking home training or sense of politeness whatsoever. Something doesn't go our way, and the immediate assumption is that somebody's trying to fuck with us, or get over on us, and ZOMG GOD BABY JESUS IN HEAVEN FORBID somebody EVER try to FUCK WIF AN AMURRRKAN, BECAUSE DON'T MESS WIF THE USA.

Or something.

Now, I don't know where these people were from - I couldn't place their accents (isn't it always the way that the worst offenders won't have identifiable accents so that the rest of the Americans can be like, "Oh, we're not from THERE"). But as soon as the tire blew out, one of them grabbed the guide as he was trying to give out water to the people on the bus and demanded in a really shitty, smarmy tone, "Hey, tell us what's going on! You should make an announcement!"

(Actually, he already had, but it hadn't been over the loudspeaker, for whatever reason.)

I heard their rumblings at the back of the bus almost exactly thirty minutes after the guide's announcement, it seems like. Not another thirty minutes later, this rather angry, aggressive, and ill-mannered couple stood up (FREEDOM FIGHTERS AGINST THE AXIS OF VACASHUN RUINING EVIL) and started shouting (no, seriously, shouting) across the bus to the tour guide, demanding answers, asking when we were going to get back, and essentially waving their dicks around.

Now let's take a pause.

It's not like the bus driver pulled over to chug sangría, or masturbate, or even to barf from partying too hard the night before. The goddamn tire blew out. You could see the damn thing in little chunks all over the road right out of the back window of the bus, which they were all gawking out of anyway. I know that you've probably planned a very exact and demanding itinerary for OPTIMUM FUNTIMES on your vacation, but maybe you could take a fucking pill, since it's nobody's fault!

Anyway, the guide at this point was no less agitated himself, but told them there was nothing he could do, that they were all waiting for the bus.

Now here's where the tour company needs to take a lesson.

Recognizing that it wasn't just Americans on this tour, it did seem like at least half of the people were, indeed, from the States. I don´t know how anybody else was handling it; everybody else seemed to be pretty chill. But while in this instance, it really wasn't anybody's fault, a company dealing with Americans probably needs to recognize that Americans are often a lot better behaved dealt with in a direct way. I think things would have gone more smoothly if they'd said, "Hey, we're very sorry, but it's going to take about an hour for them to get a bus out to us." That at least would have kept the bitching to a dull roar until the bus had gotten there.

And I'll be honest - it's not always in innocuous contexts like this. For example, the situation with the air conditioning in my apartment. I was told on Saturday it would be handled Saturday. Then it was Monday. On Monday, they didn't have the damn key to the roof of the apartment, so the check-in manager said he'd go get it from his office; he never came back, so the repair guys couldn't get to the roof when they came back. So then it was supposed to be Tuesday. Nobody came. The guy says Wednesday. Wednesday, nobody came, and the check-in manager was waffling, soI told the him if he didn't fix the situation by the time I got back on Thursday, I'd be talking to the landlady/big boss. Oooooh, all of a sudden, his panties are in a twist, and when I get back on Thursday, my AC is working.

But see what I'm saying? The situation could have been handled on Tuesday, and he'd had no intention of handling it on Saturday or Wednesday, but just kept telling me shit I wanted to hear to shut me up, which in turn only pissed me off more.

I kind of felt like an asshole American in a few of these instances, but at the same time, I don't know how they get shit done here; I only know how we get it done back home. And I wasn't trying to sweat my cojojos off until mid-July out of politeness, fo' sho!

How to Get Over Homesickness (Monday/Tuesday, 6/29-30)

It’s getting harder to keep track of what I do day to day – part of me really wants to record everything, for a variety of reasons, but part of me just really wants to be unfettered and enjoy these experiences without feeling any responsibility to anyone, even myself.

But of course, I can’t go more than a few days without writing something, and honestly, there’s nothing I want to write more about than Spain; what’s happening here, what this trip is doing to me, the things I’m seeing, et cetera. The problem is that so much happens every day, even when I do nothing at all, that if I lapse a few days (or four, like this week!), I end up having to do so much catch-up, it feels unwieldy.

But again, this is for my benefit. Maybe I’ll try to restructure things and really work this through. I think I may dedicate the rest of my morning to this.

So on Monday, I went on a little trip to recharge my cell (i.e., pay Vodafone some money), and while I was in the area, I took a walk to this spa I’d heard about to set up an appointment for a facial. From there, I was off to L’Arc d’Trionph (honestly, I keep forgetting how to spell this – it’s in Catalán, and I’m too lazy to pick up one of my guidebooks right now).

It was a nice little walk, and as evidenced by my facebook photo album, I took a ton of pictures of the areas I visited. When I got home, though, I was really struck by an awful sense of homesickness and malaise. Doubtless precipitated by my agitation from not having internet over the weekend, even with my restored connectivity, I still felt lost and lonely, and – honestly, I haven’t even fully parsed through it all yet. I don’t like to write during times like those, because generally it ends up being a bunch of maudlin, hyperbolic drama. Nobody needs that, least of all me. Instead, I ended up talking at length to Leez, whose words once again proved invaluable; she just talked sense to me in a way that was both comforting and calming, appealing to my sense of logic in such a way that managed to subdue my heightened emotions.

So, between talking to her and consulting various websites on how to combat homesickness, I was even more determined to carry out my plan for the following day; a facial, the Museu de Picasso, and La Boquería.

The facial was phenomenal; not exclusive to Spain, but I think a lot of times vacation is the time when we give ourselves permission to indulge in luxuries that technically we could have at home, but good sense and pragmatism prevent us from enjoying. Fortunately, good sense and pragmatism only extend so far on this trip (and in Spain, I’m starting to suspect), so I got my damn facial, and I felt like a million dollars afterward.

I walked toward the Picasso museum, and on the way, saw a free art gallery, where I went in and took some more pictures.

I love that these things exist; again, I can’t express how much I love how highly art is regarded in this city, how encouraged it is, how much of it exists. After the gallery, I got myself a damn fine bocadillo de jamon serrano, which is basically like fresh prosciutto except even more delicious, in my estimation (sorry, Italians!), then trotted off to the Picasso museum. The thing was that once I got there, I saw a sign that said the Picasso museum is free on Sundays, so I was all, “eff that, see you Sunday, fools!”

(suckers! hope you didn't like that 9 Euro! LOL)

and started walking to la Boqueria, taking side streets, because I kind of love the way the streets are in Barcelona. Extremely narrow – many it doesn’t seem like you could fit a car through without scraping the side-view mirrors (which explains, in part at least, why there are so many itty bitty teeny weenie Citroens and Peugots all over the place!). The paths are twisty, the buildings tall, and there are balconies everywhere, which gives this really interesting feeling. If the buildings hadn’t had the balconies – if they’d just been very tall buildings with narrow streets between them – it probably would have been quite foreboding, unwelcoming, and sort of inhuman. (And to be honest, there were streets where the narrowness blocked out the light to the point where I did feel a little sketched out – and on the two occasions that happened, I didn’t hesitate to turn my ass around and find some other way to go).

In any case, there are balconies, which make all the difference. The buildings aren’t monolithic structures, inaccessible stone fortresses, or worse, just objects that exist to fill space. The balconies create an unmistakable sense of openness, maybe of curiosity or interest (whether in the occupants of the balcony or the people walking below), and they are implicit reminders of the fact that life and people inhabit every corner of this city – horizontal and vertical. This is only helped by the laundry drying on these balconies everywhere you look. People live here. In other cities, in the city centers, I’ve not had such a strong sense of the people, the residents, in commercial districts, in places where business happens. Not so in Barcelona – I am reminded of the people of Barcelona everywhere I go, and I really love that.

So anyway, the Boquería is lovely, and there’s something I really like about the way food is bought here. Yes, they have supermarkets where you can get all the stuff you need in one clean shot – and that’s convenient sometimes. But that development of modernity does not seem to have adversely affected the popularity of the old-school market in Barcelona – there are markets everywhere, places with a vendor for every taste. A stall for each food category (often more than one):fruit, nuts, meats, veggies, sweets, pastries, tapas, seafood, vegetarian foods, organic foods, cheeses… I could go on.

So you can find these kinds of stalls at any market (mercat), but the biggest and best is off La Rambla, the main drag, La Boquería. I can’t tell you much about La Boquería that hasn’t been written in travel guides over and over again other than to say that it was really cool. I was not overwhelmed with wonder, but at the same time, I was impressed (and tempted!) by the variety and freshness, and charmed by the liveliness of it. I can only seem to make it to market in the hours between 1:00 and 4:00 PM, which is, of course, when half the market’s taking a siesta – but I’m going to try again today and see how I do.

After I went to the Boquería, I walked down La Rambla, and enjoyed the sights. I’d previously (and uncharitably) compared it to Times Square in New York, and that was really a base, inaccurate description, and highly misleading. At the time when I wrote it, I hadn’t yet seen enough of it to make a call – I’d just been aggravated by seen a McDonald’s sign and the proliferation of tourists than crowd the place into a clusterfuck. So in those ways, it is like Times Square – also in the sense that it’s rife with overpriced restaurants and shops full of cheap, tacky, and overpriced souvenirs. But it’s also quite lovely – a tree-lined route in which pedestrians are the priority, though there are car lanes on either side, and jesus, the sun. The sun in Barcelona is so strong, it’s hard for me not to enjoy myself when I’m outside during the day.

So I bought tickets to a tour of Girona, a city about an hour, hour and a half outside of Barcelona, and Figueres – where the Salvador Dalí museum lives. I went to the Corte Ingles, bought pretty much the awesomest cherries ever, as well as a book in English, and wandered around that area a bit before heading home, sweaty, exhausted, and content.

Though less so once I got back and realized my air conditioner was still busted.

Goddamnit. LOLOL!

Backlog: Saturday/Sunday, June 27/28, 2009

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!)

Travel Foibles – or, reminders from the Universe to expect the unexpected

written in part in my hotel room in Dublin at some ungodly hour on June 23, in part on the plane to Nottingham, also June 23

So I adore Dublin, but I haven’t had the opportunity to see nearly as much of it as I’d hoped. Despite my grand plans to sleep on the plane, and to compensate for this failure by taking a nap, my “nap” was actually four hours long, and then I had to spend another hour and a half or so dealing with business back home. All in all, I didn’t make it out of my hotel until about five (I think? My cell doesn’t like this time zone, and isn’t keeping time properly at all). So I got to walk around the immediate area and take a few pictures of the loveliness that surrounded me.


More on facebook... blogspot is slow!

I also had a really, really, really delicious dinner at a really cool restaurant called Church (it’s actually in a converted church):



(Also, I got to sample real Irish draught Guinness, and let me confirm that the rumors are true. It’s a different beer entirely in Ireland, and where I’ve never liked it when I’ve tried it in the States, I could drink gallons of what they served me here in Dublin.)

But then there was some drama.

So, I came back from the restaurant, full as a tick (again) and wholly content, and decided to take it easy, since I was still exhausted (I was falling asleep at the restaurant). While chatting with buddies and enjoying the intarwebs, I got a call from my “Check-In Manager,” Ahmed – who was neither of the women with whom I had corresponded via e-mail about the arrangements for this apartment. I hadn’t thought anything of it when I was given his name and information as a contact in Barcelona – I figured he’d be a super, or a property manager, or whatever. Well, whatever he was, he called me and told me, at about 11:00 PM or so Dublin time (which means about midnight Barcelona time), that the apartment I had booked and confirmed by making an initial payment of $600+, was having a “water problem,” and that it wouldn’t be available for a few days – but that they were going to put me somewhere in the “city center.” When I asked him for the address of the new apartment, he told me he’d tell me when I got to the airport tomorrow.

Hmm.

Now, this whole situation really bothered me – but whatever, I needed to go to bed, I needed to sleep, I needed to get up the next day (today) at 5:30 to make my flight. So I went to sleep.

And woke up at about 2:45 Dublin time.

I couldn’t get back to sleep – I didn’t want to. I didn’t like that he hadn’t told me the address of the apartment, and I tried calling him – to no avail, of course. Beyond that, when I’d first booked the apartment, I’d arranged to stay in one spot, and after I’d booked it, they wrote me to tell me that the landlady had booked it – and they offered me several other options at higher prices. I told them that I was on a budget, and that I needed to pay what I had originally been going to. They then offered me the apartment that many of my friends have heard about – an adorable little studio in La Barceloneta, perfect for my needs, a two minute (seriously, Google Maps said so) walk to the beach, ten minutes into the heart of Ciudad Vella, an area of the city densely packed with many of the things I want to see there. It was originally priced at about 700 Euro more than I’d booked the other room for, but they cut it down to only about 100 Euro more – which was awesome for the location and space.

At the time, I’d thought I’d just lucked out – but upon receiving that call from the “Check-In Manager,” I began to see it in a different light entirely. I’d been warned by a friend that I ought to just stay in a hostel for a few days when I got into town, so I could actually see the apartments I was considering, meet with landlords, and ensure that the situation was legit.

Of course, I didn’t listen; I was worried about staying in a hostel, I didn’t want to schlep, I just wanted to be settled as quickly as possible. I figured since I’d found the place in the comments of the NYT travel section’s article on staying Barcelona, it must be okay. (This was a naïve mistake on my part – the age of the Common Man Internet has made me forget the extreme paranoia I had back in the days, when it was only nerds, freaks, and liars on the ‘Net [remember when we actually called it that? HA!].) Of course, it never occurred to me that someone from the company itself may have written a bogus recommendation. I don’t know if that’s the case, but really, a little more info should have been considered.

In any case, (oh, look, there’s England! :D), when I woke in the middle of the night, my stomach clenched, my teeth grinding, about this situation, and I didn’t hear back from Ahmed, I wrote an e-mail to Alba, the woman I’d been corresponding with. I told her I was very distressed about the situation, and wanted the address of the place. But the more I thought about it, the less comfortable I was. I felt more than a little stupid, naïve, and helpless. Here I was, not even at home so that I had some kind of recourse, so that I could just say, “Well fuck you then,” or at least feel like I had resources at my disposal to fix this somehow. I was across an ocean, in a hotel room, in a place where everything is more expensive and my money is worth less than at home. The idea of being adrift – of having no place to stay, of having to spend hundreds of dollars on hotel rooms and losing the money I’d already put down – had me near hyperventilating.

This was why people had been so impressed that I’d gone by myself; or at least, it was what they should have been thinking about. Loneliness, okay – make a new friend, or make a phone call, or get drunk. Being in a foreign place when shit goes south, all by yourself? It’s strange – when someone else is with you, you’re in together. Whatever goes wrong, you have each other – to blame, to reassure, to talk and figure it out. There was no one to blame or reassure but me.

Well, that’s not exactly true – granted, there was no one to blame but myself (and maybe Ahmed), but there was reassurance to be had.

Now one lesson here is this – if you’re going far away, to another country, on vacation, make sure you either have a plan B or enough backup capital to make one on the fly. Also, a netbook and making sure wherever you stay has internet access is immensely helpful. With the help (and invaluable moral support) of my dear and infinitely smart and practical friend Leez, I researched hotels in Barcelona, checked them against my Lonely Planet and Rough Guide, and booked a room at a four-star hotel at an insanely cheap rate until Friday. When Ahmed called this morning, I went with my gut and told him I wasn’t going to be taking the apartment, and that I wanted my deposit back. He said that was impossible, and I told him that I was not going to pay for goods and services I had not been received – that since I wasn’t going to be provided with the apartment agreed upon when I paid, I was not going to let the charges stand. He said there was nothing he could do, so I told him that I had family in Barcelona (I did not mention that they’ve been dead for hundreds of years, and that my nearest live relative is in Mallorca), and that I was sure they could have their lawyer handle the situation, if that was what he wanted – but that I’d prefer not to have to go through the trouble.

Anyway, writing this entry has become exhausting - I'm in Nottingham now, and they're letting me into the departure area. YAAAAAY!