Bed and breakfast

I haven't written in my blog for some time, but today I felt the urge to write.  The first question is in which language I should write.  I think in a mixture of different languages and there is none of them I speak impeccably.  In my previous blog I have always written in Spanish or sometimes in Catalan, and I made a point of not making mistakes, painstakingly looking up everything in my dictionary if I wasn't sure it was correct.  Not any more. I'll write in English because for some reason it comes out more fluently.  But it will be informal and it may sound like typical foreigner English.

This morning I went to buy a bed for my guest room.  My parents are coming in two weeks and I don't want to send them to a hotel.  I got up and followed the usual Monday to Friday process: shower, orange juice, banana, coffee and sandwich in my breakfast bar and subway.  I even took the subway I need to go to work instead of the one I needed to go to the shop, but I didn't have to walk much further.  Usually I sleep until late on Saturday mornings to make up for my short nights, but it was nice and interesting to be outside.  When I arrived at the shop, there was a woman who asked in a rather deep voice if she could help me.  In Catalan.  I spoke Catalan back to her.  Usually that's the moment when they switch to Spanish, because you are not supposed to speak Catalan with a foreign accent.  But she kept speaking in Catalan, which felt like a little triumph.  I ordered the whole package: bed, mattress, duvet, pillows, linen, etc.  I think I spent one hour in the shop, throwing myself on different mattresses and listening patiently to the detailed explanations.  And I felt it was coming.  More and more.  I thought: please, not again.  But nothing to do about it.  As I was paying and about to go, I asked if there was a bathroom.  I probably wouldn't ask it if I went to buy a bar of chocolate in a grocery, but if i buy a bed I felt it was okay and they shouldn't say no.

I thought she would send me to a dark place somewhere in the back, but no: in the middle of the shop there was a huge pillar and inside it there was a small storage room and a bathroom.  She had to move around some stuff in the storage room to enable me to get to the bathroom without breaking a leg.  I had the feeling I was no longer in a public place but at someones's home.  Cleaning products, hoover, it was all there.  And very chaotic.  I immediately liked it.  Of course it wasn't a public toilet.  People go to bathrooms in pubs and restaurants, not in shops.

When I came out after a long time, she was on the phone.  I stood there waiting until she would look up.  When she did, she said thanks.  I smiled and left.  It was a sunny day, so I walked back home.  The city was alive.  And Gràcia is a nice neighbourhood with many small shops and several squares where you can have a drink or a bite.

On the way back I bought some fruit and veggies in a shop near Arc de Triomf.  And I had a (plastic) glass of orange juice and drank it there.  It is a typical situation where you have some conversation with the shopkeepers if they are not busy, but I didn't say much.  What do you expect?  It's me.

Walk on the Wild Side

A guitar and two voices is all you need.  Vanessa Paradis and Dave Stewart doing Lou Reed's legendary song Walk on the Wild Side: