I am a formerly proud puffy piece of popcorn which has been dropped onto the ground, speared by a stiletto heel, angrily shaken off, and then peed on by a dog before finally being squashed into the cement by a grumpy old man. This is the state that apartment hunting in Barcelona with two children has reduced me to.
At this point I mainly remember a blurry haze of whining (Nico), screaming (Luca), vomiting (also Luca) and rain. Also a hotel room that looked as though about 800 synthetic zebras were slaughtered in order to decorate it.
You are probably guessing by now that we still do not have a place to live in Barcelona. We must have seen about a dozen different apartments. Some were very nice but looked as though they had been constructed on the set of Fight Club. Others were in great neighborhoods but appeared to have been built for a family of moles who had no use for either light or space to turn around in.
Apparently during Franco's era, people were encouraged to have a lot of kids but few could afford to house them properly in the cities. The result are warrens of small and dark bedrooms all connected by long, narrow and maze-like corridors. The kitchens are usually the size of broom closets (rarely do urban Spanish kitchens have enough room to even put a kitchen table in) and many of the bathrooms don't have bathtubs which for me is an absolute necessity. There is also a major lack of closet space.
I am finding that these deprivations can seriously compromise my decision making skills. An apartment could be made out of Tinker Toys but if it had a giant kitchen, it would probably still go on my "To consider" list. Or it could have enormous closets and have me jumping up and down with delight despite the fact that the living room looks out on an elementary school playground (and YES we did see such an apartment).
To make matters worse, we did find what seems to be the perfect apartment, only to be told the next day that the agency requires a five year contract. The longest I've lived in one place in the past 16 years is for three years in Tokyo. I'd love to stay in the same place for five years but the chances of that happening don't seem high enough to risk signing that sort of agreement (with the prospect of losing thousands of euros at stake).
Last night I had a dream in which I had just gotten married in a dress that I thought was incredibly elegant and classy. For some reason I walked home alone from the wedding, only to pass by the Disney Store, glance inside and see that the dress I was wearing was an exact replica of Snow White's. Anyone can deduce that I am feeling the pressure.
Recently Reading:
The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa
Lit by Mary Karr
Recently Cooking: (By the way, if I link to a recipe here, you can assume it is seriously yummy!)
