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.
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.
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