the journey to avinguda sarria 8

My arrival day in Barcelona is a long and painful story; I will try my best to hold back the tears of frustration.

It truly began on Sunday just after Sam and I got off the ferry from Holland in Harwich Town, England. After much confusion, we realized that our train into London had been cancelled, replaced instead by the world's greatest form of public transportation: the bus. I can't even say how long the unsettling drive to the city center lasted, but I can say that the mood was rather somber.

But in our true travelling spirit, we pushed on and enjoyed yet another extraordinarily expensive tube ride on the most complicated subway system I have ever seen. Finally, we were able to meet up with our new friend Olly (from New Year's Eve), who promised us a ride to the airport and saved us quite a hefty cab fare.

We got to Heathrow a little after 3am, saving us from a night in a hostel but also from any amount of sleep. As Heathrow lacks signage as you approach the airport, we banked on Terminal 2, and since it continues to lack signage throughout the entire (world's second largest) airport, we had quite an adventure: The first clue led us to Terminal 1, a solid 15-minute underground walk from Terminal 2, where we were told we should return to Terminal 2, which we did only to discover that, no, what we were actually looking for was Terminal 1. And alas, we found that we were in the right place... the last two times... and walked back, bags in hand, to Terminal 2. Now Sam was good to go.

My voyage continued as I went to retrieve my stored bag from Left Baggage in Terminal 4, the most distant of all the Heathrow terminals, only accessible by train. As it was still only 5am, the first train did not come for another 30-some-odd minutes, although I must admit sitting alone on that cold and lonely smelly subway bench provided a much-needed rest. I got to my bag relatively easily - $160 and 30 lbs. later, I was on my way to catch my flight.

The sign I found happened to say that I needed to go to Terminal 1, which, surprise, actually meant to say Terminal 2. Oops! There I checked in, had to bring my horrendously "strappy" backpack to the land of misfit baggage, returned to the gate to find I was told the wrong gate number, and finally got to the correct gate with just enough time to spend $18 on a sandwich, yogurt, and some juice. I got onto my plane at final boarding at 7:20am.

Then I flew to Barcelona! I nearly slept through take-off and was not conscious for most of the flight (unheard of for someone terrified of flying). Luckily there were only about 15 of us on the plane so I had a whole extra coach seat to stretch out on. The flight went well, great views of Spain, and I was on the ground with a renewed faith in society.

I left customs perhaps a little too confident in my new airport navigation skills, because I couldn't find my bags where the arrow that said "Baggage Claim" pointed and had to re-enter through security (where they threw out my $4 juice) and walked an impossibly long way to my bags which were the last lonely stragglers, as everyone else had managed to discover some secret route. (Must have been written in Catalan.)

I found the IES people and went through my arrival check-in, sweating through my clothes, bags under my eyes. They rambled off a bunch of instructions in Spanish to which I blankly nodded "Si, Si" and continued on my way. I considered the metro but thought, no, I'll keep it simple and take a taxi. I told the nice cab driver "Avinguda. Sarria. Ocho." (my street address) and enjoyed the picturesque drive to my new home in Spain.

The driver dropped me off, 20 Euro, but well worth it for the saved stress, and I walked up the driveway to a locked gate that none of my keys could infiltrate. So, I walked around quite a big street block to get the front but found nothing that resembled an apartment building. As there were no street signs, I walked a few more blocks in hopes of finding someone holding a piece of cardboard with my name written across it or a giant neon arrow pointing down from the sky. Instead I found an old Spanish man who laughed and explained that I was nowhere near Avinguda Sarria (stupid Americans!) and that I would have to take the autobus to a stop down the road.

I was in fact quite far from Avinguda Sarria as the bus ride was about 30 minutes. Because I only could see the name of each bus stop as we pulled up to it and had no idea what to look for, the second I could read "Avinguda Sarria" I yanked my bag from the seat and sprinted to the back door which was promptly closed in my face as the driver and other passangers fashionably ignored my blatantly obvious problem. The bus continued on to the next stop, a painful-to-watch five blocks down the road.

I exited the bus, took a deep breath and kept on truckin'; there was no turning back. My bags felt as if they had taken on an extra 40 pounds but I just kept pulling and pulling. And though my distress was quite observable, don't worry, this did not bother the people of Barcelona - the weather was far too nice to be bothered by such things.

I finally came to Avinguda Sarria. If I could have, I would have smiled. Now I just needed to find number Ocho, so I looked up at the nearest street number to orient myself and read "64". Each city block averages about 7 to 9 buildings. You do the math.

Just as my lungs were beginning to collapse, my shoulder blades ready to snap off, and my body covered in enough sweat to season paella for the entire population of Catalunya, I found Avinguda Sarria 8. And as I looked around me at the huge city of Barcelona, I felt proud, because I had conquered such an impossible journey, all by myself, and this was only the beginning.