Tabula Rasa

March 28, 2013 (continued)

Following behind Deborah and her family, I was the last person off the airplane. As soon as I stepped onto the jet way, I felt a sensation I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

I was hot!

The air was sticky and pounded my body with heat. Normally, I would have complained about the humidity, but after two months of gray skies and snow, I was thrilled. Walking through the airport, I was impressed at how modern and decorative it was. Perhaps it was the halo effect of arriving in a new location, but everything seemed beautiful. So much of the inside was made of tinted glass. There were escalators leading up several stories to various Duty Free gift shops.  Like a good tourist, I took a few pictures of it

I stopped into a WC for a second to rearrange my gear. Ducking into a stall so I could sort through my money and passport in private, I stuffed my scarf and beanie into my backpack and stored my ipod, wallet, and passport inside the liner of my jacket.

Back in the concourse, I saw a tourist information desk. I approached and asked the woman where I could find an ATM. Deborah had cautioned me that most people in Spain speak English, but their accent is hard to understand.

“ATM in front of McDonalds,” the woman said, pointing across the food court. I didn’t have trouble making out any of her words. And she didn’t lie. It took me a few seconds to find the ATM, but it was literally in front of the McDonalds, right before the line to order.  I found it and took out 50 euros, recalling that Lad’ka had said 50 euros a day was what she normally budgeted in the Euro Zone.

The biggest problem I’ve had with ATMs is not the fee I get charged when I use them. My bank docks me a few bucks but it is less than I expected, and I try to take out the largest amount I can at a time so I have fewer fees. The problem though is that they only give out large bills. According to the email I’d received, the bus to the city square cost six euros. Something told me a 50 euro bill would not go over real well on a bus.

To get change, I decided to buy some food. There was a little café advertising cheap breakfast combos. I got the #2, which came with fresh squeezed orange juice, an espresso, and a ham sandwich for 5 euros. The man at the counter spoke decent English and actually juiced an orange for me, brewed the espresso, and made the sandwich all fresh behind the counter. When I went to lift each item onto a tray so I could carry them, I spilled a bit of the espresso out of the small mug shaped glass and onto the saucer he’d placed it on.

“I’m so sorry!” he said. What was he apologizing for? I was the one who spilled it.

“It’s no problem,” I said. It was only a little bit. The glass was still 4/5 full and I mostly just wanted it for the caffeine.

“No, no,” he said, removing it from my tray. “I will remake it for you.”

“Thank you?” I said, very surprised and confused.

It all tasted great. The juice was very sweet, but again, not in a sugary way. The coffee was bitter, but incredibly flavorful. The sandwich was great too. It was just ham on bread, but both the meat and the roll were tender and delicious.

I ate at a little bar inside the café. After I’d finished, I left my tray (as everyone else seemed to be doing) and headed towards the signs for baggage claim. I passed through customs, without being stopped or questioned. I’d really hoped for a stamp in my passport, but since I didn’t check any baggage, no one even looked at it.

Inside the main terminal, there were people all over waiving signs and holding banners for their loved ones. There were also a lot of youth soccer teams walking around in matching sweats and jackets.

I saw signs for a bus and followed them outside. There were two long electronic ramps (like those “moving sidewalks” that are common in airports—but these went downhill) that lead down to a bus depot. Sure enough, the bus that was waiting was the Aerobus that I was supposed to catch to the Plaza de Catalunya.

Getting in line, I waited my turn to get onto the bus. There was a family in front of me, two parents with three kids, ages probably two to seven. They were all speaking Spanish, when I was struck by an odd fact.

This probably sounds bizarre to say, but it actually did cross my mind: Spain is not Mexico. I’d expected the Spanish people to look like the immigrants we have in the US from Mexico, but in fact, they were mostly Caucasian. In many ways, I blended in (not 100% of course, but far more than I expected to.)

The bus reached capacity just before the family ahead of me got on. It pulled away, but another bus pulled up immediately. The man controlling the line told the driver not to charge them for the toddler because he was only two. I was really surprised I understood what he had said, because he gave that instruction to the driver in Spanish.

I bought my ticket from the driver for six euros, and took a seat towards the middle of the bus, just behind the rack for storing luggage. Holding my backpack in my lap, I tried to stare out the window, but the “Aerobus” logo was mostly painted over it. Within a few minutes we pulled away.

Driving into town, the few sites I could see were beautiful. The architecture looked very Roman-esque. There were also palm trees everywhere, and the whole city looked like a tropical paradise.

The family had sat at the front of the bus. The kids were on side of the aisle and the parents were on the other. The toddler was wearing khaki shorts and a red polo shirt. He had to be the most animated little kid I’ve ever seen. He was dancing in the aisle (without losing his balance), telling enthusiastic stories to his siblings, and pointing at everything out the window. Because he spoke very slow and deliberately, I could understand his Spanish better than anyone else’s. From his little guided tour, I learned when we were passing the “estadium de toros” (stadium of the bulls.)

At one point, the business man across the aisle from me stood and walked up to talk to the driver. He had grabbed his suitcase and looked like he wanted to get off. In Prague, when someone needs to exit the tram, they start to move towards the doors about 30 seconds before their stop. When the tram comes to a stop, they have to push a button on the door to get off. I had no idea what I had to do to get off this bus.

And that was when something hit me. I knew how to act Czech. I had no idea how to act Spanish.

The phrase “Tabula Rasa” from one of my psychology classes came to mind. Literally translated from Latin, it means “blank slate” and refers to learning patterns of behavior. In other words, everyone is born with a “blank slate” and learns how to act within the context of their society. Going into a new society, the slate was blank again and all of the behavior had to be relearned.

In essence, my whole adventure had been re-set by going to Spain. I was going into a foreign culture, on my own, to meet up with someone whom I’d only ever corresponded with via email. It was the exact same way this trip had started out when I went to meet Ivana in Prague.

The fourth stop on the bus was the Plaza de Catalunya that I was looking for. Luckily, it was also the last stop so everyone was getting off. When I exited the bus, I saw one of the people who got off with me go up to a man in a suit and ask directions. I assumed that perhaps he worked for the bus depot. I approached him and also asked for directions to the metro. He stared at me blankly, and then walked away.

“Never mind,” I said, mostly to myself. As I turned around to see if I could spot the subway on my own, what I saw in front of me was amazing.

The plaza was completely surrounded by palm trees. There were vendors selling food and balloons. People were mulling about everywhere. Little kids were chasing pigeons, while older women tried feeding bread crumbs to the birds. Behind the crowd was a giant fountain, encircled with statutes. It spewed crystal clear water into the air, making a direct line of sight to the national bank that sat behind it.

I crossed the street and went into the plaza. The energy of the people was contagious and I found myself laughing at nothing in particular. Pulling out my camera, I snapped pictured in every direction. Even though I was hot with my jacket on, I enjoyed finally being warm and took in every beam of sunlight I could get.

After several minutes, I decided I really should head to the hostel so I could drop off some of my things. I saw an escalator leading underground and took it, hoping it would lead to the subway. After looking around the small corridor, it appeared to just be a tourist information center. I went back up the stairs and crossed over the street.

Approaching one of the vendors selling ice cream, I asked where the metro was.

“End of street, escalator on corner,” she said.

“Gracias,” I said, trying to be at least a little bit cultural.

I found the escalator on the end of the corner and took it down into the station. Just like in Prague, the room underground was filled with shops and stands selling newspapers and knickknacks. People were racing from one end to the other, and large school groups and soccer teams seemed to be flowing in every direction.

The ticket machines were in one corner. I went up and found that the Spanish was a bit more than I could handle. Seeing a British flag in the corner of the screen, I touched it to change the display to English (the English flag is much more common to denote English than the American flag is.) I found the ticket that was good for one way in any direction and bought it for 2 euros.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see a very scruffy looking man. He began speaking to me in groggy Spanish.

“No hablo Español,” I said.

“Ingles?” he asked.

“Si,” I nodded.

“I only need fifty cents for my ticket,” he said. “Please help.”

As has become my habit when I am approached, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the first coin I grabbed. I handed it to him before I realized it was two euros. In Prague, all of the coins were different shapes I could recognize them by feel. I realized that while the Euros were all different sizes, I wasn’t used to them to know what I was grabbing.

Oh well. I thought. He probably needs 2 euros more than I do.

I validated my ticket and went through the turnstile. I followed the green signs towards the L3 train I was supposed to take.  When I got to the platform, I was burning up. I briefly thought about carrying my jacket, but since it had all of my irreplaceables in it, I decided not to take it off just yet.

When the train came, I got on. There was a violin player on the car, and the music was quite sweet. It didn’t sound as folksy as Czech violin music, but it also wasn’t mariachi music (again, the difference between Spain and Mexico shocked me on a regular basis.) I was pretty sure the name of my stop was Diagnol. I wasn’t positive though. At the first stop, I got off the train to check my email. I pulled it up on my ipod and confirmed that I was correct. I quickly jumped back on and rode the train the next station.

Up at street level, I found the obelisk that the email had told me to look for. It was at the intersection of Passeig de Garcia and Aveguinda Diagnol. My hostel was off of Aveguinda Diagnol. I walked about a block before pulling out my iPod to check the address. It was 436. Looking across the street, the first number I saw was 436.

It seemed too easy, but I decided to cross to check it out.

That was when I learned about Spanish traffic. Just like in Prague, Dresden, Kutna Hora, and Berlin, pedestrian traffic here was controlled by a red and green walk sign in the shape of a person. In Prague, jaywalking is the preferred method of crossing the street. In Germany, it gets some funny looks, but plenty of people seem to do it. In Barcelona, I wouldn’t recommend it! For one, it’s impossible to tell which way the cars are coming from or going to. Lanes merge and diverge on a regular basis and without warning, and often more than two streets meet at an intersection. The drivers also blare their horns at jaywalkers, even if they are nowhere close to hitting you.

For the record, I did not jaywalk. I followed behind a group going to the One Direction store that was right next to the hostel. Pushing open the heavy glass and metal door, I entered the lobby of the building.

The lobby was a tiny room, with only a staircase, elevator shaft, and janitor’s closet. The elevator shaft was open air, and the small cable car looked like a bird cage suspended from metal bars. A sign on the door read “Hostel guest are forbidden from using the elevator.”

Not being sure where to go from here, I saw that the janitor’s door was halfway open. I heard the sound of a TV or radio playing, so I walked up and gently knocked on the door frame. The man that I saw at the desk didn’t respond.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He jumped a little, and looked up at me.

“I’m looking for the hostel?”

“Third floor, first door,” he said.

“Thank you!” I smiled.

I went up the stairs to the third floor (which actually was the third floor, the ground level being referred to as the first floor here—unlike Prague where it is floor zero.) The entire staircase was a spiral with no real “floors” per se but different offices and apartments just off to the left side of the staircase. The elevator shaft was a series of bars that ran though the center of the spiral.

I found the door with the hostel’s name on it. Oddly, there was no door knob. I noticed a white doorbell next to the door, and I pushed it. Nothing happened. I waited a few seconds, and pushed it again. Again, nothing happened.

I shrugged, not really in defeat, but not really sure what to do next. I really wanted to get my jacket off, so I stepped up a few more steps, and pulled it off. I did my best to shove it into my back pack, but it wouldn’t fit. Wiping sweat off my forehead, I sighed a bit and wished I had something to drink.

Down below, I heard the main door open. Looking down the elevator shaft, I saw a business man with a briefcase press the button to call the elevator. When he did, there was high pitched sound of gears shrieking together. The big metal cage overhead slowly lowered to the ground level. I watched and as it passed by, it seemed to be swinging midair on its cable. Once the man entered it, he pressed another button, and gears shrieked again. They strained and strained, and the elevator didn’t seem to move. The noise up above got louder and louder. The shrieking metal was joined by a pounding sound, and gradually, the elevator started to rise.

As it did, the building seemed to shake. I’ve never been in an earthquake, but this is what I imagined it would feel like. I sat on the step, and watched in awe as the swinging, clanging cage rose past me. The entire building felt like it was swaying. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the turbulence was the worst when the elevator passed by my floor.

Once it reached its destination, it slammed to a stop. All of the noise echoed to a deafening silence, and the building returned to a stable position. 

As I chuckled a little at the spectacle I’d just watched, I heard the door below open. Several young, female voices filled up the stairwell. I listened, and I could tell they all had American accents. I looked over the end of the stairs, down the shaft, and saw for girls, about my age coming up the stairs. They rounded the corner and stopped just a few steps below me.

“Hi,” I smiled, and resumed trying to shove my jacket into my backpack.

“Hi.” “Hello.” “Hey.” They all said.

“This is it,” one of them said, pointing to the hostel door.

“Where’s the door knob?” another one asked.

“I think this is a bell,” the third one said, pressing the white doorbell I’d already tried.

“I can’t get it to work,” I said.

“Really?” the girl who had pressed it said. She tried it again and we all heard an electronic ring shoot through the building. Footsteps echoed on the other side, and the door opened.

“Hola,” an awkward looking man said as he greeted us. He looked like he was in his late twenties, but his body posture seemed aged. His face was clearly nervous and his jumpy gestures appeared to confirm this fact.

“We’re here with the Weekend Adventures Travel Group,” one of the girls said. That was the same travel agent that had booked my trip. This must be the group!

“Oh, yes,” the awkward man said. “Come in.”

The four girls followed him in. I stood up, zipped my backpack, and carrying my jacket, walked in behind them. I shut the door as the man sat behind a reception desk. “I need your passports,” he said. We each dug ours out and handed them to him. He checked names off a list and recorded some sort of info from them into his computer system. I’m guessing it is the same thing the old lady did when I checked into the dorms back in February.

He returned them to us and pointed to a map on his desk. With a green highlighter he circled various attractions saying, “Here is where we are. This is the street Diagnol, this is passieg de Garcia. This neighborhood behind us has lots of cheap shops. Here is the Plaza Catalunya. It is a 10 minute walk from here. From there, here is Las Rumblas. The beaches are here, and here. Museums are here. Cathedral is here. Sangrada Familia is here, and most tourists want to go there. Here is the Plaza Espanya and here is montjuic where the Olympic stadium is.”

I couldn’t really see any of what he was pointing to, but a lot of it sounded familiar to me.

“Your guy came by earlier and gave me these to give to you.” He handed us little try fold handouts. On them was our itinerary and more info about the trip.

“Are you paying together or separately?” he asked.

The girls looked at each other. “Separately,” one of them said.

“I think we already paid,” I said.

“I think so too,” one of the other girls said.

“Let me call your guy,” he said, clearly very flustered. “He just dropped off those sheets and didn’t tell me anything.”

As he went back and forth with our guide in Spanish, I understood enough to figure out that we didn’t need to worry about paying. When he hung up he confirmed this for us.

“Here are your keys,” he said, giving each of us a key ring with four keys and colored tag. “The big key gets you into the building at night. The next key gets you into the hostel. The third key gets you into the room. The fourth key gets you into your locker. The tag tells you the number of your bed. The bed number and locker number will be the same.

“Now come. Let me give you tour.”

The hostel wrapped around the stairwell, on all four sides of the building. Down one hall were the showers and several bed rooms. There was a kitchen off to the other side. Walking through the kitchen led to a common room area that was complete with TVs and a small computer lab. The bathroom, with three stalls and sink, was at the end of another hall. We were all staying in the largest of the group rooms which was right next to the reception area.

In our room, there were four bunk beds (enough space for eight people) two on each side of the room. We had a walkout patio that overlooked the street below, but the view had been mostly covered with tinted glass since the actual door was missing.

Once in the room we all got aquatinted. Their names were Ally, Mary, Megan, and Bridget. They were all from a small private catholic school in Iowa. They’d known each other for a number of years and were now studying in Lisbon.

I was assigned to bed number one which was a top bunk in the corner of the room. I stowed my stuff in my locker, and made my bed by putting the supplied sheets over top of my fleece sleeping bag. The girls decided to go shopping and invited me to come. I declined, unsure if I wanted to go out or take a nap.

After they left, I did some more journaling about my flight and trip across the city. I was so pleased with myself for making it to the hostel. For the third time I was overcome with the thought…I did it!