It’s funny how things work out. Hardly ever like you expect them to, but almost always like you need them to. Well, I suppose that’s how my Spanish apartment search worked out. Before arriving, I’d pretty much put all my eggs in one basket. When I heard from Tonisha while I was back in the States, I was like, ‘Great! This is gonna be the best situation. Living with someone in the same program, who speaks English, and whose name is Tonisha… so she must be cool (yeah, ridiculous. I know).’ But, after I arrived, it seemed like her communication got worse and worse. I was starting to get the feeling that she was no longer interested, and that I should come up with some alternatives. So, I hit the interwebs and started looking for other roommates and rooms for rent. Not an easy task, given the on/off again nature of the wifi in my room. But, despite the difficulty, I managed to come up with a list of about 10 suitable places. I narrowed that list down to a ‘top 4’, and started making calls and sending emails.

Of course, due to my shoddy Spanish, I was really nervous about calling, but on my first one I stumbled a bit in Spanish, before asking if the person spoke English. She did, and we set a time to meet the following day. In the meantime, Tonisha got back in contact with me, plus, I heard back from a couple of other places. Secretly, I was hoping that I would meet with Tonisha and be completely done with the search, but I kept the other appointments just in case.

My first apartment showing was with an older lady within walking distance of San Pedro. I was a bit concerned about the place, since her ad mentioned that she lived with 3 dogs, but the price was right and she was pretty close to the beach… big plusses in my book. The room was a bit on the smallish side and she had another renter already in the place – a Polish girl who I didn’t get to meet during my visit – who I would have to share a bathroom with. After showing me around and explaining everything about the house and the neighborhood, my potential landlady’s tone of voice changed rather abruptly as she said to me, “I have just one rule for the house. No men. Ever.” What came out of my mouth was, “Ok.” But what was going on in my head was, “Girl, stahp. I’m grown! What if my boyfriend wants to come visit? I gotta find someplace else for him to stay? Sneak around like a high school virgin? Ain’t nobody got time for that.” I silently crossed ‘cheap beachy abode’ off my list of contenders.

My next visit was the next day with Tonisha. Like I mentioned before, I was sort of hoping we would meet, fall in love, and be best roomie-buds forever! Sadly, that was not the case. The place was nice and spacious, centrally located in a very cool area in the center of Marbella (about 7km from my school), but Tonisha’s whole demeanor seemed lackluster and really low-energy, almost ho-hum. I tried to engage her in conversation, “What do you do in your free time here?” “How’s your school / work situation?” “What kinds of things do you like to eat / cook?” But it seemed like so much effort to get an energetic response from her, and she asked me nothing in return. Plus, there was also the issue of a shared bathroom. As I left to head to my next viewing, I thought, “Well everyone has an off day. Maybe she’s still a bit tired from travelling back from the States.” I filed her in the ‘Maybe’ column.

I set off for my next appointment, which was a bit far from both my school and the center of Marbella, but I figured it would at least be good to see it for comparison purposes. After deboarding the bus, I started walking, using the directions that I was given by the potential landlady. Since the directions contained only loose landmarks (go past the Shell station, to the second roundabout, and take the 2nd exit), not street names, I quickly realized that I might be lost. I had already walked up 1 very long, steep hill, backtracked and walked up another. Since the weather was unseasonably warm, I’d once again broken a sweat and had to shed my blazer. After about 15 minutes of walking without any sight of the street or house I was looking for, I grumbled to myself, “I don’t care how nice this place is, I can’t live here. It’s too damned far!” I finally gave in and called the landlady, explaining that I’d gotten turned around. Thankfully, she was the one who spoke English, and after giving her a landmark, she said she knew exactly where I was and would come pick me up.

When Simin zoomed around the corner in her little car and stopped to pick me up, I don’t think either of us was exactly what the other one was expecting to see. But we instantly fell into easy, spirited conversation with each other. When we arrived at her house, I regretted my earlier statement about never being able to live here. The place was absolutely gorgeous. A traditional Spanish-style townhouse, with a whitewashed exterior, a nice little garden and a sunny, open terrace. Inside, Simin’s decorating style could best be described as hippie-chic. Nothing matched, but somehow everything worked. I instantly recognized some prints of Frida Kahlo, and noticed that many of her furniture choices were very similar to my own back home. And then, she showed me the room. It was huge! A queen-sized bed, writing desk, and a bookshelf with a closet that could easily be a whole ‘nother bedroom. And the cherry on top of it all? My own bathroom! As she showed me around the place, we continued our easy chatter – we discovered that we’re both into hiking and yoga, and she let me know that even though she was born in the area, she had just moved back after several years away and felt almost as new here as I did. As we wrapped up our conversation, I prepared to leave for my next and final showing. Simin volunteered to give me a lift to the place, since she was headed out in a few minutes. “How nice!” I thought.

The next place was literally a stone’s throw from the beach in Marbella. The apartment was shared by 2 or 3 students, and I would have my own room and bedroom. But when I entered, it definitely looked like students lived there. There was a mattress randomly thrown against the wall in the main living room, and the rest of the place looked like it had been decorated with somebody’s grandma’s leftover furniture. The oven in the kitchen didn’t work, and the sink was full of dishes. There was an absolutely amazing terrace, though. And I would have direct access to it from my room. Still, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live comfortably in the dorm-like environment. I crossed it off the list.

Slightly exhausted from all the walking and viewing, I decided to take a quick break at the beach to mull over my options. In my mind, I really only had Tonisha and Simin to choose from. While sitting and soaking in the sun, I recalled the prayer I’d said before setting out on the hunt today. I’d asked God to help me find a place that felt like home. After a quick phone chat with Bro. Johnson, I dialed a number.
“Hola, Simin! It’s Kisha.”
“I don’t think I’m going to find a place that’s a better fit than yours. If it’s ok with you, I’d like to take the room.”

————-

Pics of my new place:

my roommate, simin

As of last night, my official assessment of San Pedro was, “I effin’ hate this place.” But, honestly, I think I just got so spoiled by the grand elegance of Seville that I couldn’t appreciate it. It’s definitely small, and it seems to be just a little bit ‘hood. Plus, the street system is like a big pile of tangled spaghetti. Hardly any street runs in a straight line, and a street will change names without warning, so it’s ridiculously easy to get lost or turned around, even with a map.

if it weren’t for the friendly name on this building, i would never have found my room again.

Also – I think my assessment was severely tainted by a piece of graffiti that I saw on my walk. Scrawled on a wall in the middle of an empty plaza were the words, ‘No Moros’, along with a faded red swastika. Needless to say, it made me very uneasy and equally pissed off. Even on the other side of the world, the ugly spectre of racism cannot be escaped. I tried to put the image out of my mind, but it stayed with me (subconsciously) for the rest of the day, ‘cause I remained in kind of a bad mood. I’m already sensitive and aware of how conspicuous I am walking around such a small town; I really could have done without that.

Anywho, I’m on the bus to Marbella now, it’s a much prettier and warmer day than yesterday, and I’m hoping to get a better look at things. I may even meet up with Tonisha (potential roomie) as she finally got back in touch with me today.

view from the edge of town

plaza de la iglesia – at night

plaza de la iglesia – day

avenida marques del duero – runs through the center of san pedro

how’d they know i was here?

subject to change. ain’t THAT the truth!

My flight to Spain should have been uneventful. But one tiny noob mistake turned an uneventful trip into something of a ridiculous saga.

The Realization

Maybe it was the excitement, maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was meant to be, or maybe I’m just a bit daft. Whatever the reason, I managed to deboard the plane at my first connection point in Paris and leave my passport behind in my seat. How the hell I did something so ridiculously stupid, I’ll never understand, but I’ll probably be a long time forgetting the repercussions, namely, an extra 6 hours tacked on to an already long journey.

Once I’d discovered that I’d left my passport, I hurried to the airline help desk to see if I could get someone to quickly check the plane for my missing travel document. I explained my predicament to the desk clerk. She called the gate, spoke to someone in rapid-fire French (half of which I understood), and then hung up, turning to let me know that they were checking and would call back. When they did a few moments later, she relayed the message in heavily-accented English, “They deedn’t find eet.” WHAT!? Oh, Jesus, no. This is not happening. Of all the f*(#@n things to lose, I lose the 1 things that I barely got back in time for the trip!? This. is NOT happening.

I fought back encroaching tears and pleaded with the desk agent. “I know it’s there,” I explained. “I have been nowhere else, not even to the bathroom. I’ve already checked every inch of my bag, and nothing! And, I remember putting it on the seat next to me when I sat down.” She reconfirmed my seat number with the person on the phone, waited. “No,” she said. They saw nothing. At that moment, still fighting back tears and resisting the urge to cuss my own self out for being so careless, I just started praying under my breath. “God, I need you to come through for me. I know this can be resolved. I know you will help me find a way to resolve this. I know this cannot be how this is supposed to turn out – me, stuck in a Paris airport, unable to reach my destination.” Just then, the desk agent offered the only other suggestion she had, “Haff you reported eet to the police?” “No,” I said. She suggested I do so and pointed me in the direction of the airport police office.

The Station

So, at just past 5am, I find myself communicating my situation to a French policeman as best I can. He is listening as best as he can, standing behind an unnecessarily tall desk. I am eyeing both his face for the appropriate level of understanding, and the face of the clock on the wall next to me, noticing the minutes dwindle along with my chances of making my connecting flight. After communicating my issue, I am told to wait a few moments. I briefly consider taking a seat among the dozens of others waiting on uncomfortable-looking chairs, but I decide that standing in direct eyesight is the better choice. Much conversation transpires in French among the 2 or 3 officers gathered behind the desk. One, the most genial and the one who I have just talked to, seems to be pleading my case to another more stern, apparent authority-figure who seems to be rapid-firing back the appropriate protocol to Msr. Genial. Msr. Autorité appears totally unsympathetic to the silly, simpering American woman looking on helplessly at their conversation. I don’t think he even makes eye contact with me. A third officer stands by, mostly watching the exchange, his body and facial language seemingly saying, ‘Damn. That sucks. But I don’t want to get involved in this mess.’

After a few stomach-churning minutes, an officer approaches (was he 1 of the previous 3? In my flustered state, I really can’t tell.). He speaks to me in English, “Follow me.” I do.

“Have you asked the desk agent?”

“Yes,” I say. “She called the gate and said they found nothing, but I know it’s there,” I tell him.

We go back to the help desk, this time to a different agent. She phones the gate again, gives the same details as before, listens, then speaks something in French to the officer. He turns to me. “They found it.”

YES!

A flood of relief washes over me. I notice that the previous agent gives a pinched look. What was that all about, I briefly wonder. But I have no time to pontificate. Officer Helpful is writing down the gate number, and escorting me back to pick up my passport.

The Reclamation

I chalked up the fact that no one really seemed rushed at all, or offered any help in getting me to my connecting flight to French / European standards of service or their overall lack of urgency about things. Still, I was hoping there would be a sliver of a chance for me to make it, as long as I moved very, very quickly. Well… I did move quickly, but the airport tram, the gate workers (who where nowhere to be found when me and Officer Helpful arrived. Really!? We just called and said we were coming. WTF?), and everyone else in the airport were not on the same page. After Officer Helpful had retrieved my passport and given it back to me (he also had to take a pic for his report), I dashed back through the airport terminal, on the tram again, then a quick customs stamp, a thorough undressing at security screening, and by that time I saw flashing on the monitors that the status of my connecting flight was:

Boarding – Last Call

I broke into a run, with my shoes barely zipped and my belt barely back on, and my approved carry-on liquids barely stuffed back into my bag.

Now, I’m already not a runner, but after an 8-hour flight with spotty sleep, a stressful ordeal and with a kinda-heavy carryon in-tow, I’m pretty sure I looked like the most awkward, disheveled, panicked, banshee-woman that Charles de Gaulle airport had ever seen. I was sweating, and panting, and thinking of stopping, but I had to push… just in case. When I made it to the gate, it was immediately clear that I was too late… by about 7 minutes.

Final Destination

I asked the gate agent what my options were and she pointed me to the AirFrance info counter just a few feet away. I approached, explained my situation, and asked what could be done. I was preparing for the worst – an extra fee, no more flights / seats available, etc – but hoping for the best. After a helluva lot of click-clacking, typing, sighing, and conferring with her manager, Mme. Info Desk uttered my new favorite French word, “superb!” And I was all set with a new ticket with no extra fees. My next leg would take me from Paris to Madrid, and the final flight would leave from Madrid to Seville… about 6 hours afterwards.

Though I was happy that I hadn’t totally screwed myself, I was completely dismayed at the idea of having to wait in another airport for hours. Plus, now that I would be arriving late, it meant I’d have to find my own way from the Seville aiport to the hotel (instead of taking the free shuttle provided by my program), and that I would likely miss the first part of orientation.

I was exhausted, disheveled, and it appeared that my too-thick socks combined with my too-tight new boots, along with all the running and walking had resulted in a painful blister on the back of one heel.  Any hopes of arriving cool, calm, and collected were long gone.

By the time I finally boarded the flight to Seville, I was an irritated lump of sweaty, achy, tired flesh, and I still faced the possibility that my luggage might not be waiting upon my arrival. Fortunately, it was, and I sailed out of the Seville airport as quickly as I could, caught a cab to the hotel, and vowed never to repeat such a ridiculous mistake or experience again.