6 degrees of anticipation

About 10 days later than expected, the truckload of our worldly goods finally pulled up in front of our new place. The long wait was finally over. At least the long wait for our stuff.

Three strapping Spanish lads piled out of the van and proceeded to survey the situation and decide how to get from point A (the street) to point B (the second floor). My initial enthusiasm started to wane slightly as a half-hour passed and progress seemed non-existent. The back doors of the van weren’t even open yet. Like most of our encounters so far, this was a Spanish-only crew and communication was pretty much impossible. They would bark at each other and we would understand little outside a liberal sprinkling of “aqui.” It was like watching a foreign movie with 90% of the voiceover blocked out.

Another 30 minutes rolled by as I finally understood that they were removing a window from one of our bedrooms and installing a ladder with an automated lift platform to get the goods up the 25 feet to our apartment. We were a tad surprised at this turn of events, but it’s not like we could voice an understandable concern. Then another 30 minutes ticked on and I was definitely starting to think that this was going to become a two-day job. Finally, the lift was assembled and it looked like the first item could be sent skywards. But no, with another burst of rapid Spanish, it became apparent that our movers had other intentions. Somewhere in the trading of hand signals we received the message – it was time for their 10 a.m. break and meal. Brunch, anyone?

Suffice to say, since nothing had actually left the van at this point with the two-hour mark fast approaching, I was rather put out. Even in Spanish time, it seemed like this move was destined for a difficult conclusion. But, with a sudden flurry, items started flying (literally!) up the elevated platform. Box after box went up. Then tables. Even an overstuffed chair that I had no idea could be rammed through a simple bedroom window. Suddenly, a mattress appeared in the bedroom out of nowhere. These guys weren’t movers. They’re magicians!

In the span of little more than a couple of hours, nearly all our stuff had been sent up the lift and transported to the various rooms. They put the loading crew from the U.S. to shame in terms of efficiency. All that was left was the one item of most concern – the headboard to our bed. We had debated even bringing this monstrosity, knowing that rooms are smaller here, but in the end had decided it was worth a shot. Two movers flipped it sideways and began the trek up the stairwell. It wasn’t even worth giving the elevator a second look, since elevators are rarely bigger than a postage stamp. There was considerable grunting, sweat and some taking the lord’s name in vain, or at least I assume so considering my limited Spanish. In the end, with about a half an inch to spare in two different places, the headboard was in the bedroom. Remarkable. 

With another flourish, the crew suddenly shifted into assemble mode and began attacking the bed and dining table to make them whole again. In mere minutes, this task was also completed and suddenly I was signing at least 20 pages of mysterious Spanish paperwork that I hope indicated nothing more than we had received our goods. Either that, or we just bought the crew foreman a new Opel. By 3 p.m., the movers were on their way and our formerly empty apartment now looked like Hurricane Jose had just passed through. That’s what they call progress.

RANDOM THOUGHTS: All in all, damage during the move was quite limited considering the time and distance involved. One Ikea bookshelf didn’t survive, but that’s not much of a loss. A wine glass also came up broken. And, to my chagrin, a brand new, never used Brita pitcher was cracked. That’s high on the annoying scale since I can’t replace it here… I could swear our chairs were mating inside the container somewhere across the Atlantic. Where did all these chairs come from?…

Okay, maybe it was actually his lookalike Spanish cousin, but it was an easy mistake to make. Spanish Bob had the Goodfellas look down to perfection as he fiddled with the various plastic parts of our porcelain throne. I couldn’t understand a single word he was saying, but that trademark De Niro tilted head look with devious grimace was coming across loud and clear. This toidy was a puzzler and he wasn’t happy about it.

On the positive side, the toilet was saved and coaxed back into working order, entertainment value not withstanding. Not so much for a few other household items that our handy thespian-lookalike and his helper stopped in to mend. With a total lack of communication happening on both sides, the same scene kept playing out again and again. I showed them the inoperable item, such as a shower enclosure that’s no longer attached to the wall.  They spend a number of minutes poking and shaking it with considerable trading of mysterious Spanish verbiage. Then we all do a lot of shoulder-shrugging, pointing and grunting, before they move on to the next item on the repair list. The list doesn’t seem to be getting any shorter, but they’re very pleasant fellows overall.

I’ve actually said the same thing about many of the folks we’re encountered so far on our travels around the city trying to get things bought, signed, transferred and half a dozen other verbs. Spain is rather famous for its slow pace of life. They must be doing something right since they have the longest life expectancy of any country in Europe. The issue isn’t that people don’t work, it’s more about nailing down the right time. Getting the correct opening hours of offices or stores or whatever business you’re visiting is a roll of the dice. In fact, you can literally lose days (not just hours) gambling when is the right time to show up. Key details like opening house that are seldom found online (even fewer are correct if they are online). But when you finally find the magic moment, eureka! Things actually happen remarkably efficiently. Dealing with a multitude of government offices already, I’ve found that once you have the right office and right person, the rubber stamp appears within a few minutes and you’re on to the next roll. It’s light years less painful than a visit to the DMV back home.

So far, the Spanish have been beautifully accommodating and willing to help, lustfully throwing in their limited English with our extremely limited Spanish and moving the process along. It’s been the most pleasant surprise of the journey so far that people are so open to helping. Like the ride says, it’s a small world, after all. And, thankfully, a friendly one.

RANDOM THOUGHTS: Barcelona is literally world-famous for pickpockets, although they tend to be only in the high-traffic tourist areas. On the positive side, I avoided an incident on the Metro the other day when we were suddenly crowded by four people who clearly trying to create a diversion. On the negative side, the reality is that these were lousy pickpockets, because you never see the good ones coming… The friendly Spanish nature I described above doesn’t always hold true for the shopkeepers in the busy tourist area who are inundated with visitors daily. The pain on the faces of these harried folks is universal… After 10 days of sleeping three on an air mattress, a break to the beach was warranted this past weekend. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a very good air mattress, but there’s a limit to how many times you can wake up with a 5-year-old’s foot in your ear before it’s time to splurge on some hospitality…

Just another day at the office  

It’s official. We have entered the stop and gawk phase of our experience in Barcelona. Facing a new country, new language and different outlook, of course, many things will seem not only new, but strange, or maybe even a little incomprehensible. The words, “they really do that” have been uttered more than a few times in our short stay.

The few times I have ended up somewhere new, it’s always been the seemingly trivial things that end up stopping me cold. For example, I ventured out the other day just to buy milk. It’s one of those husbandly duties like taking out the garbage – number 23 in the handbook if I remember correctly. I came home empty-handed. How could it be, you ask? Well, the Spanish appear to have a very special place for milk, and, if the big grocery mart at the edge of town is correct, that special place is a shelf at the back of the store. There stood an entire wall of shelf-stable milk. But the chilled milk? All three available bottles are hidden down the end of the wall. I guess it’s the accepted norm here, but the concept of warm, unrefrigerated milk kind of creeps me out. Same goes for the unchilled eggs. I’m told it has something to do with vaccinating the chickens, but sticking a needle in a bird doesn’t feel like it ‘s enough to alter Mother Nature’s laws about raw eggs starting to smell really bad after a few days.

It was entertaining to wander the grocery aisles and try to spot familiar things. Not particularly successful hunting, mind you, but still entertaining. If you’re like the average person who tends to buy the same box of Tide that your mother always used, your luck has run out here. But you can opt for the intriguing box of Wash Me brand laundry detergent, if you’re so inclined. The temptation is great.

The big box stores of America are pretty rare here (although Costco has started to invade some parts of Spain). Most shopping is done at small local stores or at the many markets in the city that gather together butchers, bakers and fruit vendors. It’s refreshing to see small stores thriving, although challenging in terms of selection. There’s often only one choice of whatever item you’re seeking. Hope you like it.

Of course, even a selection of one can look like a gift from above when you really need it. There have been days here when I thought I was in a real life, urban version of Survivor where the goal was to find an open store. If it’s Sunday, forget it. If it’s Saturday, nearly forget it. If’s it’s 2 p.m. on a weekday, probably forget it. Plus, everyone goes on vacation for the month of August. Don’t believe me? Try and call and you’ll hear, “Spain isn’t in right now; please leave a message.” A sign on one newsstand detailed that the owner was gone from July 28 to August 29. Nice work if you can get it. We were looking for a more relaxed lifestyle. We found it.

RANDOM THOUGHTS: It looks like Spiderman has followed us to Spain (a very serious Spiderman, in fact). He quite enjoyed a trip up the mountain to the 100-year-old Tibidabo amusement park. In fact, he fit in well enough to drive the tram car on the way back down… In the category of surprising pricing, copying a pair of keys set me back nearly 30 dollars with exchange. On the flip side, health insurance covering three people is less then $175/month… I had pasta yesterday in a plastic bowl with a picture of Lightning McQueen inside. I had cereal this morning – in a plastic bowl with a picture of Lightning McQueen inside. Nothing against Lightning, but I’ll be glad when our stuff arrives.

After two weeks and two temporary places, I’m glad to report we are homeless no longer. It’s been a more challenging process than hoped, but the ink is dry on our first flat lease in Barcelona.

To say the rules are different over here is a vast understatement. Let me highlight a few gems that may leave you scratching your head. More than 90% of flat rentals in Barcelona go through a real estate agent (as opposed to direct by the owner or a leasing company). While that may not seem surprising on the surface, there’s a couple of interesting twists added to the mix. For example, a flat might be offered by multiple agents at one time, including each one posting totally different pictures, flat features and occasionally even prices. As the renter, I typically wouldn’t use an agent to assist in finding a flat, but simply ring up the listing agent and have them show me the rental. The agent is working for the owner, but if I rent the flat, their compensation comes from me (usually in the form of a month’s rent). Can you spell conflict of interest? I understand it’s not the same in all of Spain, but that is the norm here. It’s a rather painful process. Many thanks go out to Georgia, a British expat who runs a local flat-finding service and helped guide us on our way,

As for the flat, agents use some interesting tricks to boost the appeal, such as including the terrace in square footage to make it sound bigger. Or even better, measurements are from outside the walls. When flats are described as unfurnished, they mean unfurnished. Like, really unfurnished. As in, don’t expect a fridge, dishwasher or washing machine, but likely will have  a cooktop and maybe a stove. In fact, don’t be surprised if many of the light fixtures are also missing. “If it ain’t nailed down…” is a bit of an understatement when exiting an apartment here.

Even more curious is that the rental law says the tenant is responsible for maintenance of the flat. If the drain clogs or the fridge (assuming you’re lucky enough to find one!) stops working, it’s the tenant’s dime to fix or replace. Slap the duct tape on that aging boiler or face a heft tab!

So here we sit in our first Barcelona flat with a grand total of one chair to rest a cheek on and another set of adventures added to the dossier. Monday, we ordered three appliances in a store from a lady who spoke not a word of English. Rather remarkable, I must admit. Yesterday, two technicians installed high-speed internet, also without the benefit of any English. And last night, I ordered a washing machine online for delivery. At least, I’m hoping a washing machine is on its way. Otherwise, a surprised family on the Costa Brava might be getting a free Roomba – tough to tell just using Google Translate.

When I tally up the score, I’m claiming victory. The cupboards (and rooms) may be rather bare; the concierge is still working out  our names; but the keys are in hand. And what a set of keys! Walking up the stairs with this giant set of jangling steel in hand feels like I have the keys to the Tower of London. The king and queen of the castle have arrived.

RANDOM THOUGHTS: Today’s question of the day, would you trust an oven called Candy? Definitely some colorful brand names here… Spotted a sandwich board sitting outside a nearby restaurant advertising a breakfast special. It comes with a glass of wine. Does this neighborhood have a hangover problem?… The Spanish love roundabouts, and I have to admit they are rather handy at times, especially when doing the second loop after missing the exit… I’ve discovered the only voice with worse Spanish pronunciation than me. The lady in Apple Maps is pretty close to coughing up a lung when trying to sound out some of these street names…