found.

continued from the previous post.

rounding a street corner, i walk into a small café and ask once more for the hotel. the bartender-barista wasn't sure but enlisted the help of the ten people inside the café, who all began discussing where they thought the hotel was, seemingly arguing over who was more right. from what i could understand, one man sitting by the bar instructed me in spanish to walk four blocks down and one block over, using his hands to lay out perpendicular streets as he thought to himself. muchas gracias! i yell to the room on my way out to their goodbyes and return on my quest.

walking down the street and looking down cross streets, i notice a large sign with "ac" in large bold capital letters peeking above the surrounding buildings. it wasn't near where i was directed, but thinking i could check it out anyway, i head towards the intersection and immediately recognize the familiar corner façade of the building from the hotel's website i looked at out of curiosity back in the states. the sliding glass doors part with a hiss as i approach, and somewhere in the utter relief, i am sure a deep sigh escapes my lips. i enter the cooling lobby and head towards the reception desk to ask if my friend had checked in - the same friend i last saw, what now seemed like ages ago, standing on the subway platform with all our baggage before becoming nothing but a blur.

with a few taps on the keyboard in front of her, the receptionist informs me that my friend hadn't check in yet, but i do anyway, getting my key to go up to the room. picking up a book on barcelona from the bedroom desk, i go back down to the lobby to wait. one way or another, i hoped to god my friend would meet everyone here in the lobby at eight in the evening as we were scheduled to do so. flipping through my book nervously as i finished a smoke, i pull out my final cigarette from its beige and gold box - the cigarette upturned by the same lost friend when i first opened the pack, telling me it was lucky. wishing for truth, while feeling silly about even wishing such things, i light up and take a deep drag, half glad to have just ended my daylong search-and-stroll through the streets and underbelly of an alien city.

as i sat smoking my final supposed lucky cigarette, i continue to glance over articles and photos from my magazine with disinterested attention, every so often looking up through the lobby windows at passing taxi cars, imagining my friend might step out of one. as my cigarette nears its end, and i prepare to ash it in a nearby tin after one last puff, i am jolted out of lasstitude and a melancholy stupor by a slap on both shoulders from behind. suddenly, i knew.

barcelona, spain.

¿dónde estás?

continued from the previous post.

making use of the ticket machines by the turnstiles, which now seem just as familiar as the ticket man in his booth, i work the automated-teller-machine-like screen and buttons to purchase a ten-ride ticket, probably useful, i think, if i needed to use the subway again, either today or during my stay. taking the yellow line towards urquinaona, i pass by passieg de gracia again and go up to the station lobby to look again for my friend to no avail. returning underground, i take the next train to urquinaona and while exiting a small flight of stairs from the station, ask a ticket vendor in another telephone-like-booth if he knew where the ac diplomatic hotel was located.
looking briefly towards the sky, he shakes his head and says no, but pulls out a small travel-guide-like-book from under his counter. passieg de gracia, he tells me, and shows me the page of the book with lines upon lines of hotel names in alphabetical order and nearest subway stations. thanking him, i take out my wallet to purchase another ticket to return through the turnstiles. no, he says, putting up his hand with his palm towards me. buzzing the turnstile with a hidden button somewhere beneath his window, he motions me to pass with a nod. muchas gracias, i say and head back towards passig de gracia station, another station i've grown to know well, yet perhaps not as well as barcelona sants.

arriving for the fourth time at passieg de gracia, i exit the subway tunnel into the lobby and study a map on the wall of the surrounding area with the hopes of orienting myself and seeing any street names that sounded familiar. something inside me just told me i needed to get out of here, out back onto the surface of the earth, with its fresh air and sun.

a man passes by me as i stare at the map and offers to help. pointing to a green dot on the map before both of us, he repeats something in spanish with a big smile and nods repeatedly. i have no idea what he is saying, but can only assume he is the living and breathing version of the "you are here" arrow i have seen so many times before. si, si, gracias, i say with a smile, and he walks away.

taking a set of stairs up and out into the daylight, i draw a deep breath while surveying my surroundings and collecting my bearings. vehicles zoom past me on a large boulevard lined with trees and tall, yet quaint, apartment buildings - their black wrought-iron balconies lounging above me as the hustle and bustle of the city flows beneath. picking a direction, i walk down the boulevard, and ask random people on the street regarding the whereabouts of my elusive hotel to not avail, including a security guard outside a bank who seemed unsure if he was even supposed to speak to me while on duty.

reaching plaça de catalunya, i know i have gone too far. trying to recall the image of the xeroxed map i briefly glanced at weeks before my trip even began at a study abroad meeting, i faintly remember seeing the plaza towards the bottom of the page, with my hotel circled in blue pen somewhere towards the mid-to-upper-right of the page. with "lost" being a moot point already, i walk back up the street, managing to catch two strange and undulating buildings along the way, both screaming of antonio gaudí in every way possible.

passing small side streets shooting off into the distance amid proliferating apartment buildings and trees with the same quaint charm, i search the walls for any signs or street names which might ring a bell. mallorca? something about it sounded familiar… unless i am just confusing it with the island of majorca and its majolica, but i don't really care anymore. knowing i would have to venture off this main boulevard in any case, i walk down mallorca for several blocks into barcelona's urban residential jungle, looping around tall apartment buildings, through small plazas, and again, asking strangers on the street for information. no one knows where the hotel is, but i am sure it is close. how close, is a different matter...

passieg de gracia, barcelona, spain.

¿habla ingles?

continued from the previous post.

approaching a man in a tiny telephone-booth-like stall, i indicate one ticket with my finger. looking at me rather unusually, he punches in a few keys on the register before him, lighting the small l.e.d. screen in the window to let me know how much i needed to pay. pulling out euro coins from my pocket, i pay the fare and taking my ticket, head towards the turnstiles, which would take me even farther underground. studying the wall maps along the way, i arrive at the platform, which to my knowledge, would take me back to passieg de gracia station.

the stop looks nothing like the one i originally alighted at, but i don’t think about the discrepancy immediately and instead, board the first train that arrives. as the doors slide smoothly to a starship enterprise close behind me and the car pulls away into the black tunnel, i stand nervously watching the passing darkness through the windows, which has become nothing but a blur behind my own reflection. emerging back into the light, the train stops with a gentle halt, and i quickly jump out to scan the platform. the deserted place is unfamiliar, and i realize this was not the train platform i was standing on, but rather the metro platform. making my way through the underground labyrinth of tunnels, stairs, and turnstiles and unable to find a way to the train platform below – even if it meant jumping any gates, i find myself exiting into the “lobby” area of passieg de gracia station, with its ticket windows along one wall. i ascend a set of steps to see where it leads, and poking my head up like a wary gopher, i see nothing but tall apartment buildings side by side and the clear blue sky above. a rumble of cars suggest a large street nearby, but i pull my head back down before curiosity got the better of me and head for the ticket windows.

habla ingles? i ask one ticket vendor. un poqiuito, he replies and once again, i try my broken-spanish account of what happened. asking if i could just be let down to the train platform to look for my friend, my request is declined. i had to purchase a ticket first. defeated, i acquiesce, pay the fare, and get a train ticket. checking the wall maps to make sure i was headed to the barcelona sants line, i arrive at the empty platform. this was without a doubt the same platform, which whizzed out of sight about two hours earlier – the ambient lighting was the same old-fluorescent beige, the walls had the same tile pattern, and the benches were of the same polished-metal my friend had placed our luggage beside before i ran back onto the train. my friend however, was not here.

despite the fact that it probably would have been easier for my friend to stay put, since he had all our luggage, leaving me to find my way back, this did not happen, and thinking my friend might simply had boarded the next train after discovering passieg de gracia was not the station on our ticket, i boarded the next train and returned to sants. after the train pulled into and stopped in the station which had now become familiar, i step off and look for an exit different from the one i used the first time in an attempt to cover all the routes my friend could have used if he passed this way. taking an escalator to street level, i exit fifty meters or so from the station, across from a large parking lot. walking across the lot, i notice several taxi zones and it occurs to me that my friend might simply had taken a taxi to our hotel since he had my backpack with all our maps and hotel information. i make a mental note of where to return for a taxi, should i need it later. entering sants station again, i smoke and stroll around the large hall to search for my friend. unable to locate him, i go to the passenger services office and speak to an older woman who tries the best she can to help me. understanding more than just un poquito english, she listens with squinted eyes and utmost attentiveness as i slowly convey to her my situation. i ask if she would be able to put out a call across the loudspeakers in the station and let my friend know to come to the passenger services office. she says ok, it will take a few minutes, and i write down my friend’s name on a small piece of paper before thanking her and going back into the main hall to search and wait some more. the announcement is in spanish, and my friend’s name comes across as only a staticky heavily-accented attempt. nevertheless, i cross my fingers, light another davidoff and wait.

after a good while of waiting with no sign of anything fortuitous appearing suddenly, i decide to leave the station to look for the hotel. perusing the station gift shop’s scant bookshelf of barcelona maps and tour books, i am unable to find any that can tell me the location of my hotel. i go back to the passenger services office and ask a woman (different from the one who helped me earlier) if she knew where the ac diplomatic hotel was, and if not, if she could search for it on her computer. she says yes, she does know [or thinks she knows, from what i can gather] where the hotel is located and sends me to a metro station called uriquinaona, writing down the name and metro line on a small rectangle of scrap paper. walking back to the huge lighted map of the city with its crisscrossing rail lines in bold colors, i search for line four and follow its yellow path with my eyes from barcelona sants, through the city, and to a circle marked uriquinaona. as certain as i could be regarding the whereabouts of my hotel, i take the familiar escalator back beneath the city to begin a new search...

sants station, barcelona, spain.

estación de sants.

continued from the previous post.

searching for a map of some sort - any sort - i take a pamphlet advertising what appears to be special ticket prices off a stand and on a rudimentary line-drawing of the metro line, look for the name of my previous station. passieg de gracia. it looked slightly familiar to the words written on the wall of the station that i was only able to quickly glance at before it became a complete blur. walking towards a large section of wall marked sortides/salidas and footed by a series of ticket windows, i picked one of several long lines, and lit a cigarette, one of several i would have that day. as i waited, reminding myself that this was not california and that i could smoke indoors, i looked around at the people about me, trying to get a feel for the overall tone or mood, what the culture was like. despite most people's clear agitation with the slow progress of their lines, crossing their arms, glancing ahead, smoking, or tapping their feet, plenty of others were simply lounging around on the benches, perhaps waiting for their trains. i approached the ticket window, asking habla ingles? poquito, the man replied, ad i slowly explain what had happened, using as few words as possible and hand motions to indicate "friend left" and "door closed." he understood but was unable to help me, as this was a window for internationally departing trains only. sending me to another window down the way, he conveyed, where i gathered, i could purchase a different ticket. gracies, i said.

selecting another line and finishing another cigarette, i reached the window and asked habla ingles? no, the man replied. parlez vouz francais? i ventured, thinking that being a spanish-french border region, they might speak some french. no, the man replied again. kicking myself for not brushing up on and remembering more of my miniscule amounts of high school freshman and sophomore year spanish, i pulled out the map i had and circled passieg de gracia station, indicating "one fare" with an outstretched index finger. it's not like people preferred to speak spanish here anyway; this was catalunya. in broken-butchered spanish nevertheless, i tried miming and explaining my situation. train... amigo salida... la porta cerrado... estoy aqui. he seemed to roughly understand, nodding or frowning a sympathy, and pointed me to a set of escalators on a far wall. down, the clerk gestured, and thanking him, i walked over, past the track-number-marked up-escalators which brought me to ground level some two hours ago. i was headed back under the city...

sants station, barcelona.

lost.

peering out the window and knocking furiously in a futile attempt to signal to a friend that i didn't make it off the train in time, i speed past him, and our luggage, into the blackness of the tunnel. listening to the echoing clackety-clack of the tracks and trying to collect myself, i instantly begin thinking up methods of returning to the previous station. telling myself i shouldn't have re-boarded the train to double check if we left any belongings behind, i remind myself to stay calm and stand at the door doing the only thing i could do - wait until the train reached its next stop. as the train began to slow, exiting back into fluorescent daylight, i looked out the window to behold an enormous bay of parallel tracks. crawling to a halt, the train powered down, and i knew then this was the end of the line. quickly exiting the train, i immediately look down the tracks into the black abyss from which i emerged, questing whether or not it was remotely possible to actually run down the tracks to the last station, hugging the walls or laying in the tracks to avoid any other oncoming trains. it was a crazy idea that i quickly dismissed, albeit after a stroke of serious consideration. going with the flow of the crowd, i boarded one of the escalators that lifted me into a huge room filled with people bustling about. in a city i was totally unfamiliar with, with nothing but the clothes on my back and my wallet in my pocket, this was sants estacion, and i was utterly lost...

barcelona, spain.

all aboard.

what a way to spend a birthday, here on the other side of the world. it boggles my mind to think how just yesterday, i flew across continent and ocean to spend a day wandering the city of lights, only to night train into spain. here, on the leg into barcelona, i am jotting this down on my swaying locomotive, which has just left the little border town of portbou. as i whisk by green hills and open plains, with the mediterranean sea to my left, i don't think i'm in los angeles anymore, i say to myself. forests and towns are strewn about the landscape - deep fluffy greens beside ridged red brick. as we pull into a station, an old man in a black beret passes by my window. with toothpick in mouth and cane in hand, he saunters slowly along the train, walking towards the nearest door a few meters down and out of view. his face alone speaks volumes of where i am now - this, is basque country.

after several muffled shouts followed by the almost in-unison slamming of train-car doors, i am quickly speeding past countryside once again. a train attendant, dressed in blue, hands out complimentary earphones, which would allow us to watch the free in-train entertainment video that just switched on on the television screens overhead - orangutans and julia roberts. waving my hand as he passes, no gracies, i say.

the sky outside is a beautiful light blue, marked by a few bristle-brushstrokes of white wispy clouds. the morning red-orange sun warms the church steeples of sleepy towns we cursorily breeze through, leaving no trace of our evanescent presence except for perhaps a rumble of track and a scatter of birds. despite my growing desire to just hop off and take in the unspoiled sights and a breath of fresh country air, i restrain myself knowing that whatever i leave today, i save for other adventures tomorrow - adventures where i'll see new things, try new foods, and meet new people, like the rail worker i chatted with in portbou just before my train arrived.

walking along the station, i spot a middle aged man looking bored, wearing a rough 3am shadow and a fluorescent yellow vest over his clothes. he sits on the walkway with his legs hanging over the ledge above the tracks, and lighting a cigarette, i walk over, offering him one. no gracies, he replies and attempting to strike up some sort of conversation, parlez vous francais? i ask. oui, he says and i ask him in french how to say "bonjour" in catalan. bon-dia, he replies. gracies, i say. bon-dia. it was indeed una bon-dia and a good start on a new journey of culture and learning, where it was time to stamp out any previous ethnocentric notions that america was the center of the world.

portbou, enroute to barcelona.