The final step

While planning my trip for the third time, I found an Airbnb apartment in my favorite area of Barcelona. The price was right. I knew that I’d be traveling with my arm in a sling and unable to lift more than five pounds, so I booked a car service that would pick me up at the airport, bring me to the apartment and carry my bags upstairs. That was the plan.

Slightly more than a week before my departure, I received a message from the owner asking me if I could come a few days later; instead of my original Friday arrival, that would mean arriving on Sunday morning. I told the owner that it would be difficult for me to make the change and that I would have to stay in a hotel for the weekend, and that he or someone would have to pay the difference between the daily rate of the apartment and the daily rate of the hotel. I figured he’d cave.

He accepted my terms and told me he’d look for an available apartment for those three days. I was not pleased. My friend Jim, who works near the apartment, was going to meet me on Friday just to be sure I got in. So, instead of going to the apartment I booked, we went to the studio secured for me for the weekend.

When we arrived, I did not have the code for the door, and the driver couldn’t wait and help me load my three heavy bags. I was lucky that Jim was there to help me but horrified to see that the elevator wasn’t working. Jim had to carry each heavy bag up three flights of stairs, which he did graciously without complaining. I felt terrible for him.

When it came time to move to the other apartment on Sunday morning, I was alone. Fortunately, the elevator was working, but I still had to get the bags downstairs and out to the curb. I made two trips. Also, my new place was on a pedestrian street, so the taxi could not bring me to the door. The elevator in the second building was ancient and tiny and not level with the floor, so I had to lift the bags to put them inside. When the elevator arrived at my floor, the door which opened was on the other side of the elevator and blocked by my bags. So, I rode back downstairs, unloaded the bags, entered the elevator, and dragged and lifted the bags behind me. Just like the doctor ordered.

Finding one’s floor in an elevator can be a challenge for a foreigner. There’s the lobby, called PB (piso bajo), the floor above it, call P, the floor above that, called P Bis (again), then the first floor, second floor, etc This strange configuration is due to the fact that these buildings are quite old and have been converted and altered over many years. It’s important for us to know that, when booking private accommodations in European countries, the first floor is never the first floor; which is why you need to always ask if there’s an elevator.

Once inside, I was delighted to see how clean and modern yet charming the apartment was. I was less than pleased what I saw that there were no cereal bowls, no coffee mugs, no trash cans in the rooms, no coffeemaker, no dish drain, and no lamps. This was hardly my first furnished rental, but I’ve never seen one so poorly appointed. Luckily, they have stores on almost every other block called Chinas (yes, really), which, while small, sell everything from light bulbs to stuffed animals. So, between what I bought last time, and what I found in my local China this time, I’m comfortably settled in.

So, every day, I walk around the neighborhood and end up in a local restaurant, where I have my one big daily meal, which consists of a vino tinto (local wine), a couple of courses, coffee and dessert, all for about $20. The food is wonderful and the people delightful. The only downside is that, because I’m not used to walking distances, after a while, I have very bad hip pain. My solution is to stop in the nearest park, of which there are several, and sit for a while and watch the people.

Not a bad life.