Habitacion gratis para chica liberal

I'm currently lying on the soon to be not my bed, listening to Portishead and waiting for the phonecall that may finally put a full stop to my second Barcelona flathunt. I don't how it turned out like this. When I first arrived here, the process of finding an excellent place to live was so rapid and efficient, it left my newly found spanish friends reeling. This time the process and my constant moaning about it has been so drawn out that said freinds may be new lost. Maybe I know what to expect, and have had more time to find fault with what I've seen. Maybe everything is more expensive because all the students are back. Maybe the globo-gentrification of this city is so rapid it's actually noticeable in the four months since I last looked. Maybe I've been unlucky.

Whatever it is, this time round I've been at this for well over a month. I was told at the end of July that I'd need to move out by the 15th September. Plenty of time I thought. Let's take it easy and find something really good. After all, although I was very lucky to find the place I am in now, it has it's faults. It's extremely dark for a start, Old city streets being of the gothic persuasion any reflected sunlight is mainly left for squares and attics. It's noisy, at least it is now. By night I have the recently opened Irish Bar blairing out Maddona until three (I used to go in and try and get free beer as payment for my disturbed rest, but I ended up looking like a very sad alcoholic regular!). By afternoon and evening it's the turn of my mid 30s underpants wearing opposite neighbour to play ridiculous gay house with the windows wide open. From the noises his girlfriend makes in the middle of the night when they are shagging semi alfresco I'm assuming he's not actually gay. By day there is the sound of sheering metal and banging associated with gutting the basement of the building opposite to make way for what I can only assume is another Irish Bar.

But for both these faults, it's taken a month of seeing hell holes to realise exactly how lucky I was when I found this place. That's not fair. Generally they are either hellholes, or ideal home exhibition fodder so pristine and odiously unfriendlly you'd expect to find a guideons bible in the bedside drawer. I've seen the same flat twice by accident - both time disgusting. I met a 4 months pregnant English girl who had obviously used her trust fund wisely and was now ripping students off for all they had. I saw a wonderful attic in the middle of nowhere with an amazing terrace but a terrifying dog. I saw a cupboard that the owner insisted he was going to fit a double bed into. I was told by a single parent astrologist that as I was a gemini and obviously good at communication I had to move in with her (and her playstation weilding son).

And the ones I lost! Thinking back on how elated I was to have found a feasible option the rejections are so brutal. I wasn't a girl for example, not that they stipulated that until after meeting everyone. I was very very nice, but their best friend - postman - brazillian couple off the street - a famous tax lawyer - anyone but you - wants to move in and they have to give them priority. One I actually let slip away, it was my fault, I didn't realise monday meant first thing monday and not mid afternoon.

At other times it's been fun, in a desperate sort of way. I met a really nice couple of musicians who have very kindly said I can use their room for the end of september if I want to. I won't take them up on it, but I may try to organise a jam. I've discovered areas I previously knew nothing about. I've caught a couple of very interesting colds and met a lot of very nice and increasingly well off cab drivers.

Oh and I may have to office hunt too. The girls I shared with decided to part ways and I was to follow Lorena to a new bright spangly design complex in the raval. I was assured that it's ok, and that yes she is on holiday until we have to move in, but we have the contract and we've paid up and only an act of god could stop us moving in.

God acted. The owner of the building died two days before the moving date, and now no-one has a clue what the situation is. I'm left on the end of a pointedly not ringing phone getting text messages not to worry and I'm sure we'll have news soon. It's just as well, working from home makes it easier to visit flats during my lunch break.

www.loquo.com started as my friend and is now my nightmare. It's the Barna equivalent of loot or gumtree, a free ads service and the bible for flathunters jobhunters friendhunters and anyone who needs something in Barcelona. It's also extremely monotonous if you've been staring at it every day for a month. The routine is, skim the adverts since the last time you looked (usually about 200) and put any good ones in your shortlist. This takes about 2 hours. Then you buy a new phone card for the outrageously expensive pay as you go mobile, and ring people. This is where my abilities in Spanish are put to the test. It's one thing to talk face to face, but stammering on the phone is horrid. I get flustered, nervous, mis-understood and more often than not judged rapidly. Some days there's nothing (unless you want to live in someones spare room in the nearby village of sarria, only 30mins by train).

Some days there's lots but they go really quickly. More often than not it's the same ad re-worded again and again and again. They're almost always in Spanish, and the vital peice of information that makes either you or the flat unsuitable is hidden in the small print somewhere (minimum let one year - only girls - no smokers). I don't usually translate my cryptic headlines, but this one was a genuine advert that stayed up for about a month. It means "Free room for liberal girl".

Anyway, I've said yes to somewhere and although it's not great, it's heaven compared to what I've seen and the thought of more hunting. I've said yes and she's said yes and she's going to ring me to tell me when to come and give the deposit.

Only that was four hours ago. I've texted her, gently suggesting she let's me know when she wants me to come round as I need to plan my night. I might have to call her, but I know what will happen. She'll tell me that her best friends postman met a brazillian couple through his tax lawyer who want the room and..

Anyway, right now I'm waiting for the phone to ring. Right now I maybe have a place to live and I can maybe get on with my life here and have loads of nice experiences to write home about. I feel like shroedingers cat in the box, not wanting to be alive or dead and wishing no thought experiment scientist will open it and marvel at the counterintuitive nature of quantum mechanics as I purr happilly or flop respectively.

I hope shroedingers cats box was nice inside. I'd hate to think of him waiting in the dark!

XXX

Danny