l'Apartament de Barcelona

I shared an apartment in Barcelona for two months with a lovely young dancer from France. Being French, she provided me with an opportunity to practice the language when we both should have been studying Spanish. Or Catalan.

When you work in a foreign country, it is always best to have someone living with you. A local might be ideal, but I like exploring a new place with other foreigners. A local can show you the ropes and make it easier, but you can share the experience with another foreigner. In this case, I did not pick my roommate or apartment. I just got lucky.

The outside door to the Barcelona apartment looked like every other door on a street full of residential buildings that all pretty much looked the same. It took a few days to find the right door on the first try. Beyond the front door was a dark and gloomy hallway that I imagine would have been right at home behind the Iron Curtain. I'm still surprised whenever I see anything in Western Europe that reminds me of Eastern Europe. Up several flights of constantly cornering stairs was another door that looked just like every other door. The only saving grace was that there was only one door per floor. As long as you were on the right floor, it had to be the right door.

Everything changed as soon as that door was opened. The apartment interior was bright and airy. The high walls and ceiling were all various shades of white and there were large windows taking up an entire wall of the living room and kitchen. The bedrooms had smaller windows and they faced south, so there was less light. The living room and kitchen faced east, letting light flood in almost every morning, weather permitting. There was only one bathroom, unfortunately, and it was tiny and dark. The building was at least a hundred years old. Probably older. The kitchen was obviously remodeled some time in the last five years. The living room and bedrooms were decorated in a different decade, but everything was clean and in one piece. The bathroom might have been older than the building. I have seen better equipped outhouses.

The bathroom was clean, but almost useless. The water pressure was a joke. Turning the shower up all the way provided little more than a trickle. We adjusted the water heater in every way imaginable, but that did nothing for the pressure. Eventually, a maintenance person told us that Barcelona was simply a city of low water pressure. I could not help but think he was just being lazy. The water pressure in the kitchen sink was amazing. It was so high that it forced a bowl out of my hand one of the first times I washed dishes. In the kitchen, we had to turn the water as low as possible. In the bathroom, nothing worked better than a bus station.

The bathroom and kitchen were night and day. I loved everything about that kitchen. Not only was there more than enough light in the daytime, there was more than enough counter space at all hours. The refrigerator, oven and washing machine were all new and high tech. Each could be programmed a million different ways that we never understood. Partly because neither of us were used to appliances that require an internet connection and mostly because we both arrived knowing pretty much no Spanish. The kitchen came loaded with all manner of dishes, utensils, silverware, pots and pans. We were surrounded by food all around the city, but could make practically anything in that kitchen.

The apartment had doors everywhere. Each bedroom had a door that led to the living room and another door that led to the hallway that led to the front door. Both the living room and kitchen had doors to the hallway and another door that separated the two. On our first few nights in the apartment, we closed all of the doors for safety, but quickly abandoned that idea and left most of the doors open all the time. With doors open, the light from the living room and kitchen went almost everywhere. Except the bathroom.

The front door was the most complicated. From the outside, there was a single lock that could only be closed by pulling the door tightly shut and forcing the key far more than felt right. From the inside, there were three different locks, one of which had different layers of latching. When we were home, it would have taken a battering ram for someone to force their way in. When we were out, a simple credit card could do the trick.

The best thing about the apartment was that it was an actual apartment. I stayed in an apartment when I worked in Paris and it made all the difference in the world. It felt like I was living there, if only temporarily. The Barcelona apartment was less elegant, and the neighborhood was not as photogenic, but it felt far more genuine than a hotel. I would never want to buy that particular apartment, but it was a nice place to stay for a couple of months.