A fold out pine chair supports my everything as I sit half in half out. In being the tight, sweating but brightly decorated apartment. The out is the immigrant-rich El-Ravel district of Barcelona, Spain.
The balcony is small and crowded with empty pot plants, a gas canister and the waves of neighbours lives that enter as shouts and laughter, stern instructions and stories of a hot day passed. The blue doors with orange-peel glass encase me on my seat. Barcelona.
I’ve waited so long to arrive here, to be in this country. Finally I have, and will be here for this humid month, which already, I know, will not be enough. I’ve been living in the small town of Siena, just south of Florence, but it was time to have a bit more adventure. Spain, Morocco, France. They need exploring.
It all began two days previously in my little apartment with my friends and travelling buddies Vicky and Paul. The setting: Our lives packed into cheap Chinese-made suitcases and a hard, quality Samsonite case. We are on the staircase. I go down first, ten steps. Vicky behind, about 25 kilograms supported by her right hand.
Paul: “Tell me if you need help!”
Vicky: “Nah, we are good.”
I think: “If you drop that bag and it hits me I’ll be severely damaged and angry.”
I get to the first landing, put my 24 kilograms down and turn to assess Vicky’s progress. I’m out of line of fire so am a front row witness of the drama that unfolds . Vickys three-Euro slops refuse to make worthwhile contact with the smooth marble steps. They speed up and under her, forcing her bum and stair marble to meet, multiple times. At the same moment that the slops and steps have a disagreement, Samsonite, carrying many a kilogram of clothing, shoes and Italian memories, has a similar disagreement with Vicky’s epidermis.
So for a blissfully synchronised, slow motion moment, they glide together, human and case, in a downward parallel. When the manner of descent seems too rehearsed and easy to be true, Samsonite destroys synchronicity, colliding with flesh and head and Vicky subsequently makes graze-forming contact with the wall.
My shock at severity of force and lack of interceding ability leaves me mostly speechless as our protagonist arises, leaving arm skin 6x4cm squared on the wall, and dignity in some other world, declares in her hung-over voice (from a night that became a morning on town’s main Piazza): “I’m OK.”
And thus began our trip to Spain. Blood was lost, but high spirits not. Vicky, Paul, myself, 87kg of luggage, a pack lunch, sweat, laughs and 114km of train tracks later, we checked into a Pisa-Barcelona 6pm flight. Smelling like brothels after duty-free perfumery games and stuffed with over-priced airport junk food, we slept, read and listened to tunes as we crossed the still, clear Mediterranean lake.
The entrance to the block is dented and grey with glass missing. The staircase is as narrow as our suitcases, dark and keeps no secrets about the arguments, dinners and televisions of our new neighbours. The apartment is tiny and more than perfect. Already an eruption of suitcases, books and us. It is home now.
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