The bilingual city

After all of the time spent in the Bologna Airport (including an extra two hours due to a bird having flown into the engine on the previous flight) MyAir flight 4510 actually left Italy and brought be to Barcelona. Felipe, the transfers guy, was there with a little sign for me, and drove me into town and to my new apartment.

This apartment (the third one they had picked for us after rejecting 1 & 2) is just north of the city center in a residential area. Felipe let me in, gave me the key, and then politely excused himself. It was at this point that I explored my new apartment, quickly finding 6 socks, 3 eggs, 1 pair of aviator sunglasses and a wet load of laundry in the washing machine. Apparently someone had "just moved out", and no one had taken the time to make sure they had completely moved out, but oh well. The apartment itself is nice, with four bedrooms (for three of us) of varying sizes, two bathrooms, a narrow kitchen stocked with cookware and dishes, blankets, sheets and towels all over the place. I wasn't so sure if the linens were clean, but hey, it was already 8pm, and I had other adventures to tend to.

Earlier, in my hours at the Bologna airport, I had made plans with Jenny to meet her, and her mom, sister, and sister's boyfriend at a Japanese restaurant called Shoko, on the Mediterranean. While it only would have been a 25-minute or so walk, I decided not to risk getting lost and take the well-reputed Barcelona Metro down to the area. So without a detailed map, I made my way to the nearest Metro stop, Arc d'Triumf. I bought a 10-trip, but had a bit of trouble figuring out exactly which platform I was supposed to go to.

Oh what the hell, I thought, and walked on the first train that arrived. It was really nice, with chairs for everyone, and felt much more like a train than a subway. Well, five minutes later at the next stop when I saw that we were quite far from Arc d'Triumf, I realized that this was indeed a commuter line, got off, walked across the platform, and went one stop back.

Try two. I found the L1 Metro platform (as opposed to the R4 regional one) and had to choose which direction to go. I was fairly confident I had chosen wisely, but to avoid another episode of going one stop in the wrong direction, I decided to ask, in broken Spanish, a group of guys on the subway what the next stop was. Before they could figure out what I was asking, the door closed, slamming me in the face, and setting the 16-year olds into a fit of laughter as the train sped off. Barcelona 2, Dan 0.

Fortunately subways come frequently, and by the time the next one came two minutes and 38 seconds later (the signs actually count down the seconds until the next train, pretty cool), I had assured myself I was going the right direction and got on. In true Zeehandelaar style (a theme?) I got to the restaurant minutes before the Caines did. And they took a taxi.