Week 7- I skipped a week
Last weekend I went to Barcelona, because we didn’t have school Thursday or Monday. I was there from Thursday morning to Sunday afternoon, and that’s about all I could last…I was quickly becoming more poor than I already am as the weekend went on. Barcelona cleans your pockets out faster than Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving. A lot happened in Barcelona, and I learned more than what I would consider necessary during my time there. Here’s the story.
My flight was at 8:25 in the morning on Thursday, meaning I had to catch the 6:15 airport shuttle bus that was a half hour walk from the apartment. My alarm was set for 5:05 am, but there was no reason to even set one. Food poisoning came at me like an owl hitting your windshield at night…you don’t even see it coming until its already there and there’s nothing you can do about it, then you just end up feeling awful all night. The bathroom became my temporary best friend and the tile floor, my bed. I didn’t sleep one wink; instead, I cursed those damn left over green beans turned into a Spanish tortilla until it was finally five am. I couldn’t believe that I was still going to Barcelona considering how my head felt detached from my body and my stomach felt like a giant rubber band ball. With my backpack on and breakfast cookies in my pocket, I left the apartment in hopes that I could find the bus stop on time. Getting lost when you are in a hurry is just something that happens. I got lost three times, but I blame the still dark night sky and the lack of street lighting. I asked a group of 15-year-old girls to show me the way and this was their drunken response, “Hahahaha! We live here, girl, and we’ve lived here our whole lives, but I don’t know what bus stop you are talking about. Good luck…Hahahaha!” Their laughter was like stabbing my eardrums with hot pins. I made a risky decision to ask a homeless man, who had a dog that looked like it could double as a feather duster (an obvious homeless must-have). His eager, crooked, toothless smile was not really something I was thinking too much about, but he and his dog duster led me in the right direction. In return, they got my breakfast cookies and a juice box that was labeled “orange juice” but had a picture of strawberries on it. I made it to the airport, after our bus had sideswiped a car on the way, and found that Spanish airport security is a joke. I got through with two water bottles, a pair of scissors I forgot I had in my bag (I would later regret borrowing Manoli’s scissors and not returning them immediately), and a second mystery flavored juice box.
I was in the middle seat between a snoring behemoth of a man and a child with a plastic toy car (I was the road/mountain that the car had to drive over repeatedly). Sleeping on the plane didn’t happen. I finally get into the city of Barcelona and get my stuff into the hostel, which seemed like a good location and quality place to stay. Immediately, I join up with some kids from my program and we head toward La Sagrada Familia. It’s a tease walking to this place because you can see its towers and think you are just seven minutes away, but that seven minutes turns into 20, then 30, then 45 minutes pass and you are finally there. When you first look at it, you don’t believe that it is really there. These were my first thoughts, “How does it not fall over? Structurally this is unreal and beyond creative.” and then I think, “Oh no…it looks really big. Will I be able to sit down?” Once inside my perspective changed and my questions were answered. Although the outside is made up of odd shapes and angles, the inside is sharp, clean, and has clear structure (and you really shouldn’t sit down- unless you are pretending to take a photo from the floor). The openness of La Sagrada Familia surprises you. The outside is cluttered with monochromatic stone detail, but the inside is open, flooded with vibrant color from the stained glass windows.
We head back toward the hostel, but our ADD and immaturity kicks in and we are wandering in every little dirty touristy joke shop on the way. At this point, my exhaustion and I find everything hilarious, funnier than a baby kitten wearing a top hat. I watch the street performers in awe with a giant American tourist smile on my face and a trying-to-escape laughter in my belly. I point (don’t do that) and take photos (don’t do that either) and finally stop in front of a “magician”. The build up to the trick is just awful. The guy repeatedly raises his eyebrows like, “Here I go…any second now…ready…you see this magic ball stuck to my hand…here I go…look at my hat…here’s my belt…one more eyebrow raise for good measure…and…” then the guy starts to pop lock and drop it like a gangster magician with Spanish sass and no dancing skills would. I couldn’t help myself anymore. I burst out into rumbling throaty laughter that I could feel coming from my still sore gut. The combination of how awful this “street performer” was and the anticipation among the probably-had-been-pick pocketed audience was too much. They just stood there waiting and wondering if they had missed something. I had to physically remove myself from the scene, doubled over in laughter.
We eat dinner in the hostel, because it was free, and then everyone convinces me to go out with them. My eyes are hurting and my feet feel like I have giant twenty-pound rocks in their place, not to mention that I could have probably convinced someone I was European with how I smelled. The hostel got you into discotecas for free nightly and this night was Catwalk night. Yes, just what I need…to head to a super trendy club at 1:45 am looking as if I had just barely won a fight. I manage to get inside and dance the night away, impressing everyone with my natural ability to move across a dance floor in graceful, nerd “stir the beans” and “sprinkler” moves. Once we left the discoteca, I realized that my eyesight was beginning to fail me. I would blink and when I would open my eyes there would be black and yellow splotches in my vision. Quickly my exhaustion changed into the “anything will make me angry or cry” mood. I wanted to sleep and no one was going to talk me out of it. We got back to the hostel and I could not wait to get into my bed in the ten-bunk mixed room. Now brace yourselves for this…
I open the door to my room, where all the lights are off and everyone else is already asleep. I didn’t want to turn on the lights and wake everyone up, but I could see that something was wrong. My top bunk was in the very corner of the room next to the window, which was letting in the slightest bit of light. My bed wasn’t empty. The girl in the bunk below me says, “Yeah, Kathleen. I saw that but didn’t know what to do about it.” Someone was in my bed, but I couldn’t make out a face. Not only was this person sleeping in my bed, but they were also buried in my covers, literally their head was completely under the blankets. I poked the sleeping giant and waited for the natural response…movement. Nothing. Not even a stir. No evidence of life. Everyone else in the room is awake and the lights are on now. I poke again. People are shouting profanities at this mysterious being beneath my blanket, and I am just standing at my bed patiently waiting (mildly excited that this is happening to me). Finally after a third poke or knuckle punch, there is movement. The blankets are removed and identity is revealed. There is one word to describe this man…homeless. I found a homeless man sleeping in my bed. He was clearly over the age of 45, balding (with little hairs sprouting out of his head resembling a new born Chia Pet), and surprisingly fully clothed…more or less. I say to him in English, “Hi you’re in my bed. What room are you supposed to be in?” I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. This was his chance to come up with a brilliant excuse, or any excuse, and I would have taken it. Instead, the guy just looks at me, so I try in Spanish. Just big round drunk eyes look up at me, still no verbal response. Everyone else was losing it shouting their well-rehearsed Spanish commands, “Levántate!” I tell him that it’s time he get out of my bed, and this time I meant it. This is how he responds- He rolls over to face me, still under the blankets, looks at his watch (yes, he had a watch. Surprising? Definitely. Functioning? Probably not) and says, “OkOkOkOK Ok Ok Ok”, then rolls back over and snuggles back into my sheets and blankets. The other nine people were ready to fight, but still keeping their distance, and were not hesitating to express how they felt in sentences that included all three languages: Spanish, English, and Drunk. He finally tells me that he was supposed to be on the first floor. I take that answer and actually help him out of my bed to the door. Its not until he is out the door that I realize I really shouldn’t sleep in my bed. This is hour 45 without sleep. I gather my belongings, trying to put everything back into my backpack, and the “I’m crying because I’m tired” wave crashes into me. I start crying because my zipper on my pack won’t work, then I realize I have to find a new bed and I cry more, then I remember I didn’t pack pajama pants and I cry more.
I had a bed for the night, and I had never slept better. I wake up in the morning and my first thought is, “There aren’t rooms on the first floor!” Minus points for a bad excuse. I eat my first bowl of cereal in almost two months and all bad feelings toward the homeless man disappear into the corn flakey goodness. My trip to Barcelona was a success, and I visited all of the touristy things I wanted to like Park Guell, the Picasso Museum, Gaudi’s house and apartments, Plaza Espanya fountain show, the cathedral, and La Sagrada Familia. I met up with some old friends from high school, reacquainted myself with the beach, and spent every cent I brought with me. I start my Barcelona story like this…”Well, one night I found a homeless man in my bed…but don’t worry. I’m not that easy. (I feel it necessary to clarify)”
Yesterday I saw another gypsy with a grocery cart and inside was…a hot water heater! I have finally figured it out. They are building a house. So far, from what I can tell, they have got the sink and the hot water heater (but no running water), a decent collection of coat hangers (but no closet), umbrellas, rolly backpacks, and apparently a plethora of grocery carts.
We all went to a Carnival in Cadiz where everyone dresses up in costumes and stays out in the streets until the wee hours of the night. I went as a dancing monkey outfitted with the hat, vest, baggy pants, a tail, and even cymbals (I won a costume contest). We got on the bus in Sevilla at eight pm and left Cadiz at four am. I will never ever do that again. People try to steal everything from you. Spaniards are ultra affectionate and in this setting you have no defense. Your arms are literally pinned to your sides and you are being pushed in every direction unable to make a single step toward anything. Once in a more open area I got sneak attacked by someone dressed up like an Indian, and they planted a kiss right on my mouth. Before I could register what was happening, my arm was already in motion for his stomach. I think I punched him maybe a little too hard, or just right. He looked at me with shock, confusion, and an insulted eyebrow grimace. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would be a desirable subject with my face painted like a monkey, but you learn something new everyday. I would like to thank my older brothers for teaching me to live in constant ready to fight fear. It’s refreshing and terrifying to know that I react that way to affection. So if any of you feel the need to smooch me, just give me some warning.
Manoli-isms
When Manoli cooks she always wants to show me how fresh her vegetables are so she calls me into the kitchen and this is what she says, “Lin! Come here! Come here! You coming? (As if the vegetables are going to take off out the window with her Pall Malls) Look at how bright these are? So fresh. They are so delicious. And the recipe I use with these is magnificent.” I start to formulate my response and I only get a word and a half in before she says, “Ok, go. Leave now.”
Manoli: “These are so expensive. You should know that I pay so much money for these. They are very hard to find and expensive.”
Me: “Oh, well you don’t have to buy them for us. We are ok without them.”
Manoli: “Yes I do! Fine, you are ok without them? Then why do I bother? Child, its my obligation.”
Me: “Waow Manoli! Jamón tonight? Why?” You can buy the cured leg of a pig and cut the meat yourself, but it’s really expensive to do this in your own home.
Manoli: “Because I want to. Do you not want it?”
Me: “Of course I want it! But is there a special occasion?”
Manoli: “Does there have to be a special occasion for jamón? No! Jamón is Spain. We are Spain. You are a little bit Spain. Jamón for dinner.” (She was saying ‘Spain’ instead of ‘Spanish’)
I asked Manoli to iron my vest for Carnival, if she had time. “I have time now. Give it here.” Two minutes later- “Lin! Lin! Lin? Lin? Lin!” I responded every time, “Yes?” Manoli, “Come with me. Look! Look! Your costume is so cheap. It’s the cheapest material. It’s so inexpensive. It probably didn’t cost you a thing!” She had tried to iron it, but burned through the inside layer. So there was a giant hot iron print on the vest. She said all this to me like she had just destroyed my most prized possession. The bottom half of her face was sagging with sadness, but from the eyeballs up her face was tight with disbelief. “Why would you buy this? I like it a lot though. What a great costume.” I apologized for ruining her iron and then I was excused and allowed to go back to my room.
Manoli gave Antonio a grocery list and wrote “Tabasco” but Antonio came back with three new packs of Pall Malls. He thought she wrote Tobacco. Manoli says to me, “Antonio, que cariñoso, pero qué huevos!” (You can translate that yourselves). She says this making a cupping gesture with her hands. She has no filter.
We were discussing hairy chests. Manoli thinks a man is feminine if he doesn’t have hair on his chest, and even more feminine if he shaves it. We discuss this at the lunch table while we watch a dating show on TV. I have the bowl of fruit in my hand and I am grabbing an orange, but my unusually weak wrists fail me and I drop the bowl, spilling the appropriate fruit for the conversation…bananas. Manoli looks at me and says, “Oh you poor thing. You are nervous because we are talking about men.” Then she sounds her loud smoker’s cackle laugh that rings through the apartment.
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